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Syrduria

Inconveniences

Junicia, 344 ATF

Lénárd Vitesz was a man who took great pride in his work. An ageing man, his greying hair, cut quite short, complimented his fair complexion, and his skin became more wrinkled by the year. His authoritative bearing, which he used effectively in his line of work, was marred by a receding chin and a somewhat noticeable wart on his temple. The man was in his early fifties, but despite his bouts of sickness and growing frailty, he continued to work with a growing vigour.

Lénárd was one of the chief assistants of Duke Martyn. The third son of minor nobility loyal to the Duke of Kristoheim, he’d procured a position as the Duke’s aide and officer during the campaign against Augustyn, and continued to hold this position long after the pretender had been slain fighting the elven menace. When Martyn and his son had set off for Halland in 1093 G.A, Lénárd had accompanied His Grace for the campaign, and had faithfully served as his aide, relaying orders back and forth and managing some of the more mind-numbing details of the campaign.

By the end of 1093, Lénárd commanded a disorganised structure of aides and servants, all of whom had specific (or non-specific) duties in ensuring the smooth running of the army. The ageing man commanded such a structure harshly—no detail was left unattended to, and disobedience and tardiness from his officers was met with strict justice. As said before, he took great pride in his work, and expected his subordinates to act with the same attitude. When they didn’t, they were prone to a good lambasting from their superior.

It thus came as quite a disappointment when one of those subordinates, Lyrenz, failed to turn up in the morning for an important task. Lyrenz, who had before been serving as Karlus’ aide up until Braddau, decided that though the King would be returning to Wyvern’s Rest, he would remain with the army. He had long acquired a distaste for the court life of Wyvern’s Rest, and so after much insisting and prodding, the King allowed him to remain with the soldiers. Lyrenz was then added to Duke Martyn’s staff, and had from then on been serving as an aide under Lénárd, running back and forth along the army, delivering missives and documents.

That morning though Lyrenz was nowhere to be seen, much to the dismay of Lénárd, who needed him urgently. For the prideful and laborious aide, who was always knee-deep in work, any deviation from his meticulous schedule and planning was a disaster, and Lyrenz’s absence was proving itself to be an unexpected and unwanted deviation indeed. Lénárd remained with Martyn at the head of the army, marching along with the men, and spent the rest of the morning thinking how he would berate the young knight when he finally showed up. The reason for his absence was unknown, and unbeknownst to both Lénárd and the Duke, the young knight was caught in a rather bad spot at the back of the Syrdish army, desperately trying to pass through.

It happened like this: last night the Syrdish army had encamped next to a small stretch of road that connected the two towns of Graubrucken and Prevans. Lénárd had sent Lyrenz to the end of the camp at Graubrucken, to deliver some missive to one of the many mercenary commanders of the army. Lyrenz arrived there in happy spirits, and was soon taken in by the charming nature of the town and its tavern. A few drinks later he went to sleep at the inn, and awoke next morning with a headache that made him feel like his head was about to split open. He left the tavern to find that most of the army had already departed, and suddenly remembering that he needed to get back to Lénárd, the blonde-haired knight equipped his fluted plate armour and set out for the vanguard, where he knew Martyn and Lénárd would be.

Yet as he rode forward, mounted atop his grey horse, the army came to an awkward halt before a small stone bridge. There was some shuffling and grunting, as the long line of soldiers stretched out across the road groaned at the unpleasant delay. It was even more so for Lyrenz, who was growing increasingly stressed by his tardiness. As he drew closer to the bridge, the army became less of a line and more a great mass as the neat little column of men devolved into a great crowd that waited awkwardly. The soldiers no longer kept to the road, which meant the young knight’s convenient little strategy of riding along the side of the road now no longer worked. Knowing that he would get nowhere with his mount, he dismounted, leaving his steed to his squire, and began shuffling through the lines upon lines of pikemen. The drummers of the mercenary companies were playing their tunes enthusiastically, their melody providing some relief from the boredom. Men across the line broke into song, hoping to revive their spirits with the music. The disorganised march of the army was normal and expected—not even Lénárd’s rigorous officers tried to keep discipline within the movement of the Duke’s soldiers. The many mercenary companies kept generally to their own pace and moved somewhat independently, though all were loosely connected to form a shambled line.

Lyrenz tried to wade through the crowd but as he drew closer and closer to the bridge the line unravelled further and further and a congested mass of men formed by its entrance. Men stood impatiently and idly, some muttering curses under their breath, others still in high spirits as they whistled and sang. They held their halberds and pikes in their hands or by their sides, while their swords or daggers were sheathed, the wooden hilts of their blades contrasting with the colourful doublets and hoses that they wore as a uniform.

Lyrenz pushed a little bit further forward, brushing past some of the men, provoking some grunts and mumbles. Trying to pass to the bridge, he shuffled past another group of soldiers until arriving at the beginning of the bridge, which was blocked off by a crowd of rather irritated looking men, who grumbled and sighed, no doubt at the annoying delay. They were not the majority, though. Some, beleaguered by the oppressive marching, had taken it as an opportunity, and rested.

“Gentlemen, if you don’t mind…” Said Lyrenz, trying again to shuffle through the group. Yet the crowd around the bridge did not budge. They looked at him with disgruntled expressions, each of their faces scowling.

“What’s the ‘urry, Sir?” Spoke up one of the younger soldiers. He had a cheery look in his eyes, and his warm smile and rosy cheeks—a cause of the unusually cold morning—gave Lyrenz an amiable impression of the man.

“I have to get to His Grace. Army business.” Answered Lyrenz impatiently, hoping the curt response would suffice.

“Well you’ll have to wait, Sir. Delay on the bridge.” Informed the cheery-eyed soldier.

“Aye, you’ll have to wait like the rest of us.” Remarked another. His dark hair was obscured by a plumed fur hat, and he held a smoking pipe in his right hand, while his arquebus rested on his shoulder, propped up by his left.

“What’s the delay?”

“Wagon broke down, it’s blocking the bridge. Some of our boys are trying to fix it.” Replied one of the men.

Lyrenz sighed and looked around the area, a defeated expression drawn across his face. Some of the soldiers around him showed a little sympathy, but there was little they could do, and they stood around there, waiting. The cheery-eyed soldier, however, remained bright as ever, though a little dismayed. Hoping to offer more assistance to the young knight, he spoke up.

“If you’re really in a ‘urry Sir, there’s another bridge you could try crossing, just a mile away. I heard Ferenc’s boys took that road, ‘im and the other huszars. I wouldn’t worry too much, this delay shouldn’t last that long. We’ll be back on the march soon enough. It’s an inconvenience, you came at just the wrong time, Sir.” He explained, trying to give a solution to the knight’s problem. Lyrenz turned to him and gave a faint smile, but the defeated expression did not leave his face. The cheery-eyed soldier looked dismayed once again, but he did not give upon the conversation, despite Lyrenz’s apparent unwillingness.

“Are you a Sir?” He asked merrily. The young soldier wore a blue and red doublet, lined with tiny little cuts along the arms and shoulders. A great red felt hat lined his head, topped with some pale white feathers, and the rest of his head was covered by a white coif. His chest was protected by a steel breastplate, as was his neck, which was covered by a gorget and a bevor. He was a halberdier, and held his weapon by his side, which stood intimidatingly before the crowd.

“Hm? Oh, yes.” Answered Lyrenz, responding impatiently.

“Assumed as such. Never seen a man in such armour like that that wasn’t a Sir, ‘cept for maybe one or two.” Remarked the young soldier, smiling again. Lyrenz again gave an impatient smile and turned away, praying that the delay would be over soon. The soldier paid no heed to Lyrenz’s unwillingness, and continued the conversation nonetheless.

“So what’s your name then Sir?” He questioned. Lyrenz sighed quietly, then turned again to face the soldier.

“Sir Lyrenz Reimund.” Replied Lyrenz.

“I see. So, sir-” Began the soldier again, but he was interrupted.

“Filipp be quiet.” Snapped one of the older looking soldiers. The older man had a lofty air of authority that surrounded him, and he cast a glare at the cheery-eyed soldier. The young halberdier immediately quieted, and diverted his eyes elsewhere, as his already rosy cheeks became even redder.

“I only wanted to..I’m sorry…oh Sir you must forgive me…I never meant to…” He stammered, but soon became quiet. As the music from the drummers came to a brief close, an awkward silence filled the growing crowd. A dismayed and embarrassed look crossed the young soldier’s face, while Lyrenz stood around strangely, just waiting for the delay to end. He wanted to put the halberdier at ease, but what he really wanted most was to just get going and not avoid complete embarrassment at Vitesz. He remained silent, and did not speak. The cheery-eyed soldier lost his happy look, as irritation and shame crossed his expression.

The drummers resumed their music. They played a new song this time, and many of the men joined in like before, their different and contrasting voices blending together to form a strange, but somewhat pleasant tune.

“Ah, at last!” Cried out one of the men, and sure enough the long column of soldiers had begun moving across the bridge. The irritated soldiers flooded across and like the others Lyrenz budged and shuffled through their lines, attracting some outcry, but before long he had passed through the bridge. He pressed forward towards Duke Martyn and Lénárd Vitesz.

A while later he arrived at the head of the army, reaching its advance guard, composed of the proud and noble knights of the kingdom, who rode behind the Duke himself. Martyn was mounted atop his horse, adorned in almost full plate armour, save for his head, which was uncovered. He was surrounded, as always, by a group of knights, aides and servants, who rode, as always, with proud expressions on their faces. Lyrenz’s arrival intrigued them, and one of the riders, a poorer-looking valet, who held a large banner in his hand, rode up to him, departing the group for a brief moment.

“Sir Lyrenz. You’re late.” He said quietly, a proud smile on his face. He treated the young knight with some deference, but at the same time held his head high, and a sly smirk crossed his face as he said those last words; he took great pleasure in rubbing the embarrassment in Lyrenz’s face.

“Where is Vitesz?”

“With His Grace. He’s not happy, you know.” Informed the valet, the sly smirk crossing his face once again. Lyrenz scowled, and left the valet without another word. He caught sight of Lénárd then, who was riding with the Duke quietly. The old man had an irritated expression with him, and when the same valet rode up to him and informed him that Lyrenz had arrived, he glared at the young knight and approached him. There was a brief silence then, as the knight waited for his superior to begin. Lénárd looked around, and when he was sure that Duke Martyn and the group were within earshot, he began his tirade.

“Insolent fool! Where the hell have you been?! I needed you here by early morning before we had even set out! Now it’s noon! Noon! Iskren’s sake! You think you can be tardy and idle around!? Well you can’t! It’s insubordination I tell you, gross insubordination! I’ll have you punished, you dolt! You make a name of me!” He shouted, a bitter and hateful tone being felt in each of his words. Lyrenz cowed before him, the same embarrassed expression on his face as he had seen in the cheery-eyed soldier. He was starting to regret approaching Lénárd in front of the whole group.

“These men of Heinrik’s time1, I tell you…no discipline, good for nothing…” Rambled on Lénárd, though his words lost their fiery tone and within a minute the man had settled down, though his bitterness to Lyrenz had not yet dissipated.

“I’ll have you punished, yes…a good disciplining is what I’ll do…I’d have you scraping the latrines if I could…just what you deserve…” He said quietly. Lyrenz joined the group of aides and servants that surrounded the Duke, though he did it with some embarrassment, his cheeks still a bright red from Lénárd’s chastisement. Soon as the hour passed he adopted a sad expression and a slouched posture, as he rode along with the rest of the group, who occasionally cast awkward glances at him. The Duke did not pay much heed to the embarrassing incident, much to Lénárd’s dismay. He spent the rest of the day discussing army affairs with his commanders and noblemen. By the end of the day it seemed that everyone had forgotten Lénárd’s tirade, though it certainly didn’t look like that to Lyrenz, who, convinced that this embarrassment would never be forgotten, carried an embarrassing expression for the rest of the ride, praying for some escape from the Duke’s group as soon as possible.

Later that day the Syrdish army reached its destination: the encampment of Count Jakob Zalan. That morning, just after dawn, the Syrdish vanguard of lancers and huszars, led by Jakob, had skirmished with the Hallish vanguard by the town of Uzhental, which confirmed what was already known to the Duke—his army and that of the Hallish, a large force led by the young and eager Count of Halbenstein, were about to make battle.

Throughout the year of 1094 conflict had been kept to a minimal. Prince Kristian’s force, now left by itself without the Alvarish, took to retaking the towns and cities captured by the Syrds, but made little attempt to dislodge Martyn’s position in Obersrath. Yet while the young Prince dabbled in army matters, his father continued to rally the Hallish states to the Korbeker cause. Appeal was sent out to the other members of the Hallish League, who now felt somewhat emboldened by the state of things. The Count of Halbenstein, the affluent and enthusiastic man who Hans Albrecht had met at Grafsburg, proved the most courageous. Hoping to emulate the Alvarish relief at Creutzkirchen, he gathered his men-at-arms and equally eager vassals, and marched south to Obersrath.

Kristian was barely left with enough time to scramble his forces together to join Josef’s march. The Count’s march southward was poorly coordinated—by the time he and Kristian had agreed to a pincer attack on Obersrath with both their forces Count Josef had already crossed the Geber. Martyn pounced on this disorganised advance. His force, bolstered by new funds from Wyvern’s Rest, was marched northward from Obersrath to meet Josef before Kristian could even properly catch up.

Little of this was known to Lyrenz. Everything about the army’s movements, which he helped relay to commanders of the army, were still shrouded in some mystery. He and the other aides had speculated of the supposed coming battle, but others were unsure that it was going to happen. Some feared that they would be on the retreat soon, or that the Duke of Korbek had brought the full might of the Hallish League against Duke Martyn’s army—others spinned their own tales, telling that a fresh army was arriving from Wyvern’s Rest, that the King was personally coming with some 20,000 men to beat back the Hallish, and that Prince Kristian was now on the run again, having been deserted by his Alvarish allies.

Count Jakob Zalan, leader of the vanguard, had encamped by the town of Uzhental, between two small rivers, just a few miles off from the Hallish vanguard, which had also set in for the night, for the sun had begun to vanish beneath the horizon. The two opposing armies began to trickle into the area in the afternoon. By the evening the Syrds had massed all their forces into the area and had struck camp for the night, closer to the Hallish than they had expected. Everyone was now expecting a battle come morning, and the speculation from Martyn’s aides had mostly ceased. Focus was drawn to the coming day.

The Syrdish encampment was divided into four main camps, all connected and surrounded by rudimentary defences, pickets, sentries, and sparse tents that dotted the terrain in between the four. The first of the camp belonged to the vanguard of Count Jakob, who had settled down far closer to the enemy than he was supposed to. This camp was anchored on the small town of Uzhental, a small village surrounded by a wooden palisade and rampart. The other two camps were further back from the Hallish, and belonged to the core of the army, divided between the mercenaries and the men-at-arms. These two camps were closely packed together, but still somewhat separated. The final camp belonged to the huszars, who were isolated by a small wooded area, and expected to keep to themselves.

Duke Martyn had struck his tent in the camp of the men-at-arms. He spent the afternoon seeing to the camp’s defence and the organisation of the sentries and pickets, while he devoted the evening and night to overseeing the details of the coming battle, discussing the order of the army with his subordinates and commanders. Lyrenz, who was not left with anything to do, as Lénárd had yet to call for him, sat atop the log of a chopped down tree by the tent of Martyn and rested. He lit his pipe and began smoking, as he looked up to the starry sky. The moon, occasionally covered by a passing cloud, was casting its blue hues upon the camp and upon Lyrenz himself. The young knight let out a small sigh, as he tried to relax and forget the events of that day.

“Lyrenz!” Cried out a voice. Turning his head to the ducal tent, he saw one of the valets motioning to come. Rolling his eyes, he stood up and walked reluctantly to the tent. He found it to be mostly empty—most of the commanders had gone, and Duke Martyn sat silently, staff of office in one hand, while the other rested on the table. Lénárd was there also, standing upright and with a firm and bitter expression on his face. When Lyrenz entered he jerked his head to meet the knight eye to eye, though he regretted it, for he felt a sharp pain in his neck and winced. Nevertheless he maintained his proud posture, though he kept one of his hands to comfort his aching neck, and walking over to Lyrenz, he cast him an authoritative glare.

“Hopefully you’ll be useful this time. I need you to deliver a missive to Count Jakob.” He barked, shoving a small letter into the young knight’s hand, before adding: “And you best come back. I want to see you here at dawn. Tomorrow there will be battle, so it seems at least, and I need you and all the others by my side to help with the smooth running of everything. You are forbidden from joining up with the lancers again. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Count Jakob’s camp is the furthest one up ahead.” Informed Lénárd, still stroking his neck. He then withdrew from the conversation as he called for the other valet and began giving instructions to him. Lyrenz gave a nod and a bow, then departed the tent.

The camp of the Syrdish army was a disorganised mess. Even throughout the night it was alive with energy, as men and servants darted back and forth carrying messages, wood to kindle the various campfires and other various supplies necessary for the soldiers. As he passed through the narrow streets of the camp, occasionally bumping into one such servant or messenger, Lyrenz could hear the lively conversations of the soldiers, who laughed and chuckled and sang. Many had already gone to sleep, resting in their tents or outside by the campfires, but some remained awake, their loud conversations being testament to that.

“Excuse me Sir!” Exclaimed one of the passing servants, carrying a sack of supplies on his shoulders. He barged past the young knight, a hurried expression on his face as he scurried away to one of the camps. Lyrenz continued moving at a restrained pace—he didn’t see real urgency to the letter he needed to send to Count Jakob, and besides, he was quite enjoying the pleasant aura of the camp so why shouldn’t he enjoy it a little more? He continued along the streets of the camp and eventually came by the large baggage train. Groups of soldiers had flocked here, as they came to sate their appetites and other needs.

“Say it isn’t so! Sir Lyrenz, Sir Lyrenz!” Shouted one of the soldiers around a campfire by the baggage train. Lyrenz turned his head to meet his gaze, and recognised the man as the cheery-eyed halberdier that he had met at the bridge. Walking hesitantly over, he found the halberdier among the same group of soldiers as he had found him before, only this time they were huddled around a roaring fire, as two of them unpacked the supplies of a wagon that was laid by their little camp.

“I want to ask, did you get to His Grace in time?” Asked the halberdier curiously, his lips curling into a small smile. He was warming his hands by the fire, and his plumed hat rested by his side.

“No.” Answered Lyrenz quickly, as he let out a puff of smoke.

“Shame. A real inconvenience that was.” Remarked the halberdier.

“Oho! There’s ale here, boys! And some wine by the looks of it too…” Shouted one of the soldiers who was rummaging through the wagon. The faces of the men lit up for a brief moment, as the two soldiers lowered the cask of ale. The men, tankards in hand, then took their fill and eagerly began to sip, relishing in the comforts of the drink. The two men continued unpacking, as one took a small jug of wine, removed the lid and poured a glass for himself.

“Pass it over will you András.” Said the halberdier, pointing to the jug of wine. The man readily handed it over, and the cheery-eyed soldier took his fill of it as well, drinking eagerly. He cast a glance at Lyrenz, who was standing around there smiling and taking in the scenery of the whole camp, and offered him a drink.

“Would you like some? Plen’y to go around!” He said, but the young knight shook his head.

“I’ll have to pass, goodman.” Declined Lyrenz, letting out another puff, which floated into the air and vanished. Most of the soldiers, having finished unpacking the food, took to snacking, but one who did not feel hungry at the time sung quietly to himself, occasionally letting out a whistle to accompany the song’s words. A few joined in with the music, while others kept to themselves, exchanging a few words or two with rest. Lyrenz at first observed silently as he smoked, a wide smile on his face, but then picked up the tune that the man was singing, and joined in with the whistling.

“Filipp.” Said one of the men as he stood up. The halberdier looked at the soldier with wide eyes.

“Hm?”

“Do you know where the ladies are at?” Asked the soldier bluntly, though there was a somewhat awkward expression on his face. The halberdier chuckled, and was quick to give a response.

“Other side of the baggage train.”

“Do you mind…it’ll be the last time, I swear.” Continued the other man strangely, his voice losing confidence as he finished his sentence. Filipp rolled his eyes and sighed, as he withdrew a small pouch of coin and passed it over.

“This is the second time, you’ve yet to pay me back.”

“I know, I know, I’ll give it to you in time.”

“If you end up dead tomorrow I’ll be very very disappointed.” Remarked the halberdier, and his laughter was echoed by the others. The man who had been given the coin walked off in a timid hurry to escape the laughter of his comrades, and vanished from view. At that moment Lyrenz remembered that he needed to get to Count Jakob, and with an alarmed expression on his face he went off in a hurry. He paid less attention to the surrounding soldiers this time, and walked at a rapid pace, hoping to reach his destination in time.

Lyrenz reached Count Jakob’s camp later that night. Stretched out across a small meadow by the town of Uzhental, the knight found the vanguard to be in a particularly sorry state. Though the tents were more opulent and colourful then before, and men in plate armour were more common, there were many wounded, no doubt a product of the sparring that had occurred earlier that day. The sound of groaning permeated the camp, and the young knight was treated to awful sights all around. He caught a glimpse of one of the tents, where a wounded knight lay in pain, surrounded by some of his companions and a dainty-looking physician, who was sizing the wound up and down.

“I fear it will have to be cut off or it’ll be too late.” Lyrenz heard him say, and his words provoked a wail of despair from one of the knight’s companions. The knight himself was too delirious to talk, speaking only in unintelligible groans and whimpers.

Lyrenz continued walking, passing the numerous other tents. Some of the soldiers, who had survived the morning ordeal with little problem had, like the others, gathered around the numerous campfires to eat and feast, as they recounted tales of the small skirmish that was still fresh in their memories. Others had already taken to their beds, sleeping in their tents or under the watchful gaze of the starry night.

Lyrenz made his way to Count Jakob’s tent. The small canvas pavilion was dressed in the Count’s armorial colours, and the painted fabric both inside and outside displayed his coat of arms for all to see—an extravagant show of status, though not uncommon. Walking inside, Lyrenz found the place to be well lit, with numerous candlesticks providing a golden hue to the whole place. The Count himself was seated next to a large table, which was the centrepiece of the tent, being covered with a wide array of food. He was still dressed in his plate armour, though above his waist he wore a colourful yellow doublet. Large wide cuts on the arms and shoulders revealed a fine shirt below, which the Count proudly flaunted.

Turning to meet Lyrenz’s gaze, the Count noticed the young knight and stood up to greet him. He adjusted his black felt hat, which sat comfortably atop his head, and his lips curled into a wide smile, as he sized Lyrenz up and down, giving him a long, inquisitive look. The Count was of tall stature and medium complexion, and his small brown eyes stared warmly wherever they gazed. He had a narrow nose, which pointed somewhat downward, and his straight brown hair was cut to his ears.

“Sir…Sir…I can’t quite place the name.” He said, still giving that inquisitive look with his warm brown eyes.

“Sir Lyrenz, My Lord.”

“Ah.” Muttered the Count, until a few seconds later his face lit up as he appeared to have a moment of epiphany. “Oh! Yes, yes I know you well Sir Lyrenz. You’re a Reimund, yes…I know your father. I remember you at Aimerbülh. A fine lad you were, at that battle.” He reminisced as he sat back down, pointing to the seat opposite of him to offer it to Lyrenz. The young knight readily accepted it, leaning back and relaxing himself as he took a deep sigh.

“Why have you come?” Inquired the Count, and suddenly Lyrenz was reminded of why he had been sent there. He handed over a sealed letter to Jakob, who immediately opened it with an impatient vigour. His eyes darted along the page with speed, as he quietly muttered the letter’s contents.

“Failure of shipment…necessary rations…hm.” He mumbled, and that was all that Lyrenz heard. The Count cast the letter aside without a second thought and turned again to Lyrenz. “Well, you can tell Lénárd Vitesz and His Grace that I’ll speak with them tomorrow morning, if I have the time. But don’t go just yet, Lyrenz. Eat, there’s plenty of food.” Informed the Count, motioning to the plates of bread and meat.

Lyrenz hesitated, and his cheerful but somewhat anxious expression betrayed his reluctance. He opened his mouth to decline, for he needed to get back to His Grace, but Jakob, who had already assumed that Lyrenz had accepted his invitation, interrupted him.

“Nasty business that action at Creutzkirchen was, no?” He said brazenly, taking a bite of bread. He poured himself a cup of wine and drank from it eagerly, wiping his lips with his palm. Lyrenz stammered for a moment, as he tried to think back to that battle of last year.

“Ye- yes, yes it was My Lord.”

“You fought with me like you did at Aimerbülh. Shame what happened, though. We could’ve whipped them there, but alas. I nearly captured one of their standards, you know! Was beating ‘em left and right and made my way to a great banner of theirs. Held it in my clutches for a while, until they came in full force. Left the church with the skin of my teeth.” Boasted Jakob, taking yet another long sip of his wine. Lyrenz ate moderately, ripping small pieces of bread from a large loaf and eating them one by one.

“A tragedy.”

“A simple error. We’ll have it rectified tomorrow. This morning I sparred with them again. Captured a few of them even. Yet tomorrow, tomorrow there will be battle. And we will win. Do you know why?”

Lyrenz shrugged.

“Tomorrow is St. Yanos’ feast day. Our patron saint. Auspicious, no?”

“Indeed.” Remarked Lyrenz, having not realised it before.

“He will guide us into battle, and we will rout those dogs from the field. Like we did at Aimerbülh. Ah, Aimerbülh…” Said the Count, and it was clear that he enjoyed reminiscing, because he then leaned back in his chair with a wide smile on his face and a blank expression as he stared fondly into nothing. A moment later, his warm brown eyes turned again to Lyrenz, and, acknowledging the young knight’s presence, he spoke again.

“So! What say you, Lyrenz? Will you be fighting with me once again like Aimerbülh and Creutzkirchen? You’re a fine soldier, you know. A fine, fine soldier. If we had one-hundred more of you we might’ve been at Grafsburg by now!” He exclaimed, already assured that Lyrenz would accept. Yet the young knight hesitated, and with that cheerful but anxious expression, he stuttered, remembering Lenárd’s words. Having yet to think of a response, he took a large sip of wine, and used that free time to come up with an adequate answer.

“Unfortunately, My Lord, I really mustn’t. I’ve been um…forbidden, you could say.”

The Count’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Forbidden? For what reason?”

“They’re my orders, My Lord. I’ve been told to stay behind by Lénárd Vitesz. I won’t be fighting, but I will be relaying orders…and the such.” Replied Lyrenz nervously. The Count let out an involuntary burst of laughter.

“Ha! Relaying orders! Pardon me, Lyrenz, I don’t mean to poke fun, I don’t. Yet what gives Lénárd Vitesz the right to order you around like that?”

“I’m in no position to refuse, My Lord. It would disgrace me, really. His Grace, Duke Martyn, would be most displeased if I disobeyed…”

“How so?”

Lyrenz hesitated once again, and took another long sip of his wine. He pondered for a moment, and in the end sighed and decided to recount the entire day’s story to the Count, telling him everything, from the delay to the bridge to Lénárd’s outburst. The story took a while to tell, and whenever he was unsure of what to say he would always take a sip of wine to think it over, so that by the end of his tale he had exhausted an entire jug.

“And that’s that.” He said, having finished recounting it, and giving a small burp at the end. The Count gazed at him with that same warm expression, his face twisting into a quaint little smile. He gave a quiet chuckle, and said:

“An unfortunate series of inconveniences, but I’m sure it’ll all be fine eventually. His Most Senile Grace will forget it in time, I’m certain.” Assured the Count, giving a burst of laughter at his own joke, before settling back down. “But…touching on this matter of that grouch Lénárd Vitesz… did you really let him speak to you like that?”

Lyrenz was caught off guard by that remark. He reached for his cup of wine, only to find that it was empty, and the jar as well.

“Well…yes.” He answered timidly, letting out a hiccup.

“He has no right to!”

“He has every right, My Lord. He is my superior.”

“Superior? To you? And how did you come to this conclusion, pray tell?” Inquired the Count, quite intrigued by Lyrenz’s tale and at the same time utterly confused. His warm and cheerful expression—which had not once left the Count’s face—eased Lyrenz, who quickly responded.

“Well I take orders from him-” He began, but Count Jakob cut him off immediately.

“And? I take orders from His Grace Duke Martyn, yet he is in no way my superior! Only His Highness is, and even that…well it’s shaky. Primus inter pares, as the Kostuans would say!” Exclaimed the Count, laughing again at his own words. Lyrenz’s face betrayed his own confusion, and the Count quickly caught onto this. Quieting down once again, he let out a quick ‘ahem’ before continuing. “Now listen here, Lyrenz. Lénárd Vitesz is in no position to talk to you like that. Who does he think he is? You are Sir Lyrenz Reimund, first-born son of Lord Armin Reimund. Now Lénárd Vitesz? Why he’s some second-born son of some poor lord, and he hasn’t got a single estate or castle to his name!”

“Isn't it the same with me?”

“No, of course not! You are the heir to a lordship, and not just any lordship, but a lordship that has for generations been owned by a most reputable and honourable family, the Reimunds. The only thing Lénárd Vitesz inherited from his father was a crooked face!” Laughed the Count. Lyrenz let out a small chuckle, quite delighted by the Count’s repeated insults of Vitesz.

“Bes- besid…” Began the Count again, but was interrupted by his own laughter and that of Lyrenz’s, as the two men chuckled and chortled. The Count eventually mustered up the seriousness to continue. “Besides that, from what I’ve heard after the death of his first wife, Lénárd’s father took a trip to Halland and married some Hellish—pardon me, Hallish peasant girl, and that’s how he had Lénárd!”

“Is that really true?”

“I don’t know, but what’s important is that you never let a man of such low blood insult you like that! He’s a disgraceful little man, and if he ever said such things to me, I’d strike him round the ear!”

The Count’s words were followed with yet more laughter, and a few hiccups on both sides, as the two drunken men joked and chuckled. Lyrenz’s face was alight with joy and excitement, a wide and inebriated smile crossing his face.

“I really…must be going though, now.” He said, rising from his seat, still giving an occasional chuckle. The Count’s face dimmed, but nevertheless he stood up to say farewell to the young knight.

“Will you be joining us for battle, then?”

“I’m afraid not, My Lord. His Grace would really not be pleased. And he is in every way my superior.”

“Ah. Well, I don’t blame you. I must be going too, Sir Lyrenz, I must…say my prayers and go to bed. Farewell.” Said the Count, resting his hand and the weight of his body on the table in order to keep his balance. He gave Lyrenz a pat on the back and sent him away.

“Farewell, My Lord.”

Exiting the tent, Lyrenz stumbled out of the way of a passing group of soldiers, who were also preparing to sleep. It was by now late into the night, and there was little light to be found, save from the burning torches and the occasional bit of blue moonlight that peered through the clouds. Lyrenz walked away slowly with no clear destination, admiring the lofty sky above him, his drunken state of mind making him forget all about getting back to Duke Martyn’s main camp.

After a while of mindless wandering he reached the northern outskirts of Count Jakob’s camp and sat down on the green grass below him, resting his legs on the comfortable ground. He turned his eyes to the scenery before him, and noticed, in the very distant horizon, the flickering of a few orange lights. Their strange dance, as some suddenly appeared on the stage while others were snuffed out, intrigued him, and he fixed his blurry vision upon them, observing them closely. He wondered what they were. Turning to a group of pickets just by him, who too were fixated on the orange lights, he rose from his grassy seat and approached them.

“My good fellows, are those our men encamped further up ahead?” He asked, a confused expression on his face, as he continued to ponder what those lights were.

One of the men, a tall and intimidating figure, who was leaning against a tree and stroking his dark brown moustache, looked to Lyrenz with an almost amused expression, and readily answered him.

“Them be the enemy, Sir.”

“The Hallish?”

“Yes, the enemy. That’s their camp. ”

“Oh.” Mumbled Lyrenz, turning his gaze again to those orange lights. A faint smirk crossed his face, then suddenly he remembered something.

“My prayers! I must…say my prayers. Good fellow, you don’t mind if I…” He exclaimed, approaching the same picket and pointing to the green grass below them.

“Not at all, Sir. Speak your mind to The Greatest as you wish.” Replied the picket.

Lyrenz fell onto his knees, and adopted a stance of prayer. He turned his eyes to the sky above, then to the orange lights in the distance, then closed them.

“Hail Iskren, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst men and women, and blessed is the fruit of thy labour, for thou hast born the true faith which hath delivered us from damnation. Pray for us sinners, from now until the hour of our death.” He whispered solemnly, before making the sign of The Greatest with his right hand and then pressing it close to his lips. Only when all that was said and done did he leave to go to bed.

***
The next day both the Syrds and the Hallish had set out for battle. Departing their respective camps, they proudly flaunted their great banners and marched towards each other. With cries of “To The Greatest!” both armies were infected with a courageous enthusiasm, their march towards death being livened by the constant beating of the drums and the singing of the soldiers. The two steel forests moved against one another, and with a final “Hurrah!” the first shots began to ring out across the battlefield.

Duke Martyn had set his headquarters by a small farmhouse. The family that lived there, who did not speak Syrdurian, tried their best to tend to the Duke and his entourage’s needs, with the woman of the household preparing a table for them at the foot of the farmhouse. The servant boys of the Duke laid a linen tablecloth over the table, and then a large map of the area, which the Duke and his subordinates studied closely. One of the members of the Hallish family laid out a few chairs before scurrying away back into the house, while the woman of the household again appeared with a jug of water.

Both Lénárd and Lyrenz were by the Duke’s side. Martyn and Vitesz were in the process of deliberating on the battle, as messengers arrived and departed every now and then. The Duke held his staff of office firmly in his hand, as he always did, and would occasionally use it to point to the map. Lyrenz was resting with some of the other valets, smoking pipe in his right hand, as he waited for Lénárd to summon him. A bored and plain expression was drawn across his face, as he waited idly to be given something to do. Occasionally he would hear the distant sound of gunfire in the distance, and the occasional roar of cannonades, which were eventually silenced, no doubt due to the general melee having begun.

Like at Creutzkirchen, the flat meadows and smooth hills of the Hallish low country had given way to a simple battlefield for the two armies. Yet, without a single hill from which to view the battle, Lyrenz was almost unable to see what was going on. The featureless battlefield had deprived him of any good vantage point from which to observe the action. He and some of the other adjutants were resting on the grass viewing the far-off battle, making speculative comments about the course of the fighting. Many others were acting as if they were generals, making comments such as “if the enemy attacks with their such-and-such then we’ll have to send in the company of so-and-so” or “why don’t we simply order X to outflank Y”, and so on. Sometimes Lénárd Vitesz would call on one of the men, and send him off into the battle to deliver an order, but not Lyrenz. Slowly smoking his pipe, he remained an observer of the awful affair that was unfolding before him.

“If our right wing would actually move for once in their lives we might have this over and done with by lunchtime.” Said one of the men, watching the battle with the same curiosity as the rest of the group.

“But they are pressing an attack, over there.” Said another.

“I can’t see ‘em.”

“Over there you dimwit!” Pointing to some barely distinguishable masses of colours in the distance.

“Well you must have an eagle’s eyesight, because I can’t see anything..” Muttered the man embarrassingly. “Are those Count Jakob’s men then?”

“Count Jakob is on the left. Those would be Count Wernyr’s knights I believe, but I can’t see them either.” Answered Lyrenz, having overheard and memorised the discussion of the dispositions earlier that day.

“I see…” Mumbled the same adjutant, and soon after silence took hold of the group once again.

Less than an hour into the battle Lénárd called for Lyrenz to come. The old man had an anxious look on his face, and had been repeatedly dishing out orders to the adjutants and members of the Duke’s entourage. The Duke himself was surrounded by some of his aides trying to get a better look at the battle. A scowling expression clinged on to Martyn’s face, as he listened to his subordinates and observed the ongoing action.

“You look annoyed to be here.” Noted Lénárd as he eyed Lyrenz’s slouched posture and expression. Lyrenz had a mind to fight back, but he cast a gaze at Duke Martyn, and—not wanting to potentially offend both Lénárd and His Grace—stayed quiet.

“You shouldn’t be annoyed. You should be grateful. You could learn from this. You are at the heart of the battle.” Snapped Lénárd, his expression full of vengeful pride, and every word he said was filled with a bitter and resentful tone.

“I’d hardly call this the heart of the battle, Sir.” Replied Lyrenz meekly, as he gazed at his surroundings.

“Well it is. Everything depends on here. On him. He decides the battle.” Informed Vitesz, casting a glance at Duke Martyn, whose eyes darted between the map and the far-off battlefield. Lénárd looked again to Lyrenz, and suddenly remembering why he had called for him, spoke again.

“I need you to do something. If you aren’t a complete dolt maybe you can do it properly this time. Ride over to the centre, and tell Sir Gellért of the Old Company of Szafürt to press the attack. We’ve nearly got them on the run now. They’re in the centre, near the right, by a small line of hedges.”

“What’s the banner of the company?”

“...Chequy Gules and Or I believe. And with a black lion over it. Rampant. Now go!” Barked Lénárd, and with that Lyrenz set off. He mounted his horse and rode off into the battlefield.

Departing the makeshift camp by the farmhouse, Lyrenz travelled along one of the dirt roads towards the battle. He found the Syrdish battery of cannons and their gunners to be resting by the sunlight, as they too watched the affair with anxious expressions on their faces. One of the men, leaning against a serpentine, raised his plumed hat in deference to Lyrenz, before turning his focus back to the distant masses of colours in the far off meadows. Lyrenz gave him a quick nod and continued riding away. The simple and rolling meadows that had dominated the landscape soon gave way to rougher and rougher terrain. The dirt and mud kicked up by the marching Syrds and the Hallish cannonades proved to be the first signs of battle here. A few bodies were strewn across the ground, their lifeless corpses serving as mere decoration to the meadow, their dark red blood and colourful clothing contrasting with the bright green grass of the field.

He rode further up ahead, reaching a small line of hedges and trees, where Sir Gellért was supposed to be, only he wasn’t, and neither were his men. Looking further ahead, Lyrenz could see that the neat line of Syrdish pike squares that Lyrenz had seen at the beginning of the action had devolved into a scrambled mess of bloodshed and death. Shots rang out from every direction, as small companies of arquebusiers ran back and forth, while the flanks of the two armies, the proud knights of Halland and Syrduria respectively, crashed against each other repeatedly. The outnumbered Hallish fought ferociously, as the Syrdish pike squares fell with full force upon the men-at-arms. Whereas before Lyrenz had been sitting comfortably atop the grass, observing the combat and making a few passing remarks, now he was in the thick of it all, and completely lost, unable to find his destination.

“Iskren’s name, he’s got it all wrong!” He thought, his eyes meeting a group of three idle and battered pike squares. Sure enough, one of them flew the banner that Vitesz had described earlier that hour—the black lion atop the chequered field. Lénárd had been completely incorrect in his description.

“What use are orders from His Grace if he can’t even get them right! Iskren’s name!” He said to himself, shaking his head in shame. Kicking his horse to a gallop, he approached the square that was proudly flying the banner of Sir Géllert. The three pike squares were arrayed in a disorganised line, and the remnants of battle clearly lingered on to the company and its proud pike squares. Corpses of both men and horses were littered around the field where the tight formations of pikemen lay, and men in the front lines of the square appeared exhausted or injured—some were struggling to hold their pikes upright, the ache in their bloody and bruised hands simply too great.

Approaching one of the men in the square, Lyrenz hailed him with a short curtsy and greeted him with a cold and anxious look, his formerly bright and happy expression dimmed by the gruesome sight that laid before him.

“Where is Sir Gellért? I come bearing orders from His Grace.” He asked, his voice full of pride. Immediately there was some mumbling and muttering among the battered men of the pike square, then some shuffling, until finally a short little man in a fanciful doublet, steel cuirass, and a large plumed hat came out from the rows upon rows of men.

“That would be me. What orders do you bear?” He said, using his hand to wipe away a few specks of blood that stained his thick moustache.

“You and your men are to press the attack. Immediately, Sir.” Informed Lyrenz.

“We are in no position to do that, Sir.” Replied Gellért.

“These are orders from His Grace.” Insisted Lyrenz, a confused expression drawn across his face.

“Then you can tell His Grace that ‘e can’t see properly, and that ‘e can sod off. We only just repelled another attack from the enemy lancers, and they’re not gone, not yet.”

Lyrenz sighed, before muttering to the mercenary captain: “What shall I say to His Grace, then?”

“What I already said: That he can sod off!” Shouted the captain in his gruff voice.

“By The Greatest here they come again!” Cried a voice suddenly, and the captain’s head jerked to the field west of them. The thundering of hooves was heard, and as Lyrenz’s gaze too turned west, his eyes caught sight of a few companies of lancers that approached quickly and steadily. Suddenly a great panic took hold of the already exhausted and dishevelled men in all three pike squares, as they came alive with energy and confusion. Some of the men in the two other pike squares, carrying defeated looks on their faces, cried out “it’s over!” and prepared for a rout, but the captain and the officers tried to keep discipline.

“You desert and I’ll have you hung! Now come on, let’s show them bastards what’s for! Steady men, steady!” Said one, grabbing a fleeing soldier and dragging him back into the pike square. Some of the men, inspired by their officers, joined in on trying to stop the rout, crying out to the wavering soldiers with inspiring shouts, hoping to ensure order in the pike squares.

“To The Greatest!” Cried out the captain of one of the squares.

“The Glory!” Replied the men with a great cheer.

“To The Greatest!” Repeated Sir Gellért.

“The Glory!” Repeated the men.

Lyrenz could feel a courageous emotion take hold of him in that moment, and that feeling soared and soared and soared. With each cry the men of the three pike squares let out he felt it surge within him greater and greater. “Orders! Bah! What use are orders here? It’s all a great mess, that’s what it is, a mess! And I’ve had it with Sir Lénárd! Yes, I’ve had it with him!” He thought to himself, and turning again to the forest of pikes that laid before him, he felt the courageous emotion surge within him again.

“The Greatest save the King!” He cried out, unsheathing his sword and swinging it around like a madman.

“Aye!” Cried out some of the men. “Greatest save the King!”

“Greatest save him! Greatest save us all!” Roared another group.

“Steady, ‘ere they come! To The Greatest the glory!” Exclaimed Sir Gellért. Then as the Hallish knights neared and neared, the three pike squares stood resolute and lowered their steel-tipped lances in anticipation, letting out yet another roar of inspiration for the men.

The group of Hallish lancers, that had before been charging towards the battered pike squares with a ferocious courage, wavered for a moment. Seeing within their foe a renewed vigour, and sensing that they would not break at first contact, the lancers became acutely aware of the danger that Sir Gellért’s company of soldiers now posed. Steadying their charge for a moment, they pondered, then turned tail and departed. The pikemen and halberdiers let out a great cry of relief and courage, along with a few sneers and jeers that they hurled at the retreating enemy.

“Ahah! Perhaps next time, Hallishmen!” Chuckled Sir Gellért, his bursts of riotous laughter resonating throughout his pike square. One of the ensigns rose the great chequered banner as high as he could, waving it around triumphantly. This action was repeated in the two other squares, and the soldiers let out yet more jeers of victory. All the while Lyrenz watched from behind their lines, his eyes entranced by the grand spectacle that the company of men had given him.

A horn sounded out from the distance, and the thundering of hooves was heard once more. Turning his head to meet the sound’s origin, he caught a glimpse of yet more companies of knights to the north, that charged past Sir Gellért’s pike squares and towards the fleeing Hallish knights. Squinting his eyes to get a closer look at their banners, he saw the proud flag of Count Wernyr, and recognised the banners of numerous other Syrdish knights and men-at-arms. The men noticed them too, and with a loud hurrah they cheered the charging Syrdish knights. Count Wernyr’s companies of lancers crashed into the enemy Hallish, and at once a melee began, as steel met steel, piercing flesh and armour alike.

“Now they’ve truly ‘ad it! Wernyr’s got ‘em by the skin of ‘eir teeth!” Shouted Sir Gellért. “Right boys, let’s give them a good thrashin’! Sound the call to attack!” He exclaimed, and immediately the ensign waved the banner again, and the drums began beating enthusiastically, as the men cried out. With that the pike squares set off and began their movement towards the melee between the two groups of lancers. Moving slowly and almost timidly, the three blocks—a woven mess of pikemen, halberdiers, swordsmen and gunners—marched against the Hallish knights.

The beating of the drums and their cheerful cries of the soldiers announced their arrival to the melee, and with a resounding shout the pike square of Sir Gellért attacked, the pikemen stabbing and skewering the enemy knights. The two other blocks, meanwhile, prepared to wheel around to the left and deliver a flanking blow. Yet by that point the Hallish lancers had well and thoroughly given up the fight—throwing in the towel, their neat companies shattered into hundreds of individual knights, and with all hope of victory lost, those men were routed from the field. A mutual celebration was heard throughout both Sir Gellért’s men and the knights of Count Wernyr, who laughed and cheered, and at the same time mourned the fallen.

Lyrenz, who had been watching the whole affair, following the pike squares closely but always timidly hovering out of imminent danger, now observed the celebrations with a wide smile on his face. He saw one of the pikemen, who had evidently been in the front lines during the charge, tear a piece of his shirt away and use it as a bandage, stemming the blood that had been dripping from just above his eye. A few others collapsed onto the ground from exhaustion, while some offered thanks and prayers to The Greatest. A good number of them had immediately pounced upon the corpses of their fallen enemy, hoping to take what trinkets and coin they might find.

“Well…I believe the fight is won. If I am seeing correctly, the rest of the Hallish army has also fled the field, along with that lot that we just routed.” Remarked Sir Gellért, a curious Lyrenz by his side, as he cleansed himself of the stains of battle with a small cloth, rubbing it along his face.

“I must offer my congratulations, Sir.”

“To whom? To me, or the men?” Inquired Gellért.

“To you, though your men no doubt deserve praise. Yet you are their commander. It all depends on you, would you not say?” Replied Lyrenz, recalling the words that Vitesz had said to him.

“Bah! What matters, goodsir, is the men. At least that’s what I believe. And I’d know from experience.”

“Then I offer my congratulations to you and the men. I will have your praises sung to His Grace.”

Sir Gellért laughed, as he began wiping his sword.

“You should get going, Sir Lyrenz. I am sure that ‘is Grace awaits you.” He said.

“I am sure of that too.” Answered Lyrenz. He set off towards Duke Martyn. He recalled Lénárd’s words again, and contrasted them with everything that he had seen that day. That order had been completely useless, he thought. How could everything depend on His Grace, when he couldn’t even see what was going on?

“His Grace should’ve been here. Rather than sulking away back there. It’s cowardice. Yes, I think it’s cowardice.”

He continued riding along.

Footnotes

1. These men of Heinrik’s time - Heinrik Kristoberg was King of Syrduria from 310 to 331, and Duke Martyn’s uncle. To be of Heinrik’s time is to be born during his reign, as opposed to Lénárd, who was born during the reign of Heinrik’s predecessor, Faulk II.

Rolais, Elvhenen, Chirenai, Saeju, and 5 othersNamalar, Cheysal serulea, Ryeongse, Eskeland, and Nesketos

Elvhenen

Valeriy of Elvhenen - Part II

Fellheim Castle, Eskeland

Written in collaboration with Eskeland

The last batch of letters had arrived at the castle. The courier who had brought the previous one had decided to send the other part with another one. Georg came down from his study to receive him, he was happy to read more about his son’s adventures down in Elvhenen. With the letter in his hands, Georg went back up to his study, a servant following him with his cup of tea. Georg loved his cup of tea.

Setting up his reading space close to the window like the day before, Georg sat down, the servant helping him with whatever he needed before leaving for his quarters. Georg opened the first letter.

Father, Aerali and I were in love, after that night everything changed, we looked at each other differently…

----------------

I had the plan to propose to her but felt like the time was not right yet, we had a lot more to know about each other and many more nights to spend together. But guess what, I got the opportunity to properly attend a feast, I was sent a letter inviting me to it together with the rest of the church. I honestly thought why would they invite me, a foreigner,, but I wouldn't reject such an invitation.

Fashion for members of the religious elite were by far the poorest. Even clothing had symbolism for the Mithallans. The Cleric, who had been the reason for my involvement in attending the feast, wore silk and fine cotton robes, embroidered with precious gems of red and gold, with his primary colors being that of bright blue, representing the sacred color of Mithalla herself, along with his loyalty being to the Empyrium. To show off the oneness of the members of the Temple, Aerali had worn a similar dress, though hers was long and flowing with a golden circlet resting gently upon her head.

A fortnight later, I was welcomed as one of Mithalla’s faithful upon our arrival to the Palace of the Empyr, where scores of the city’s wealthiest merchants, nobles and military officials gathered at the base of the stairs and soldiers under the Empyr’s domain were dressed in red and gold robes, in sharp contrast to their normal everyday armor. As for our group, it was Cleric Zalos, Vice Cleric Aerali, myself and four Keepers of the Temple, those who had served well in the upkeep of the Temple and therefore were gifted with some time to enjoy the Empyrate’s higher luxuries. Despite their lower status, Cleric Zalos had supplied adequate clothing on their behalf, the likes of which far exceeded their ability to pay for without a year’s worth of wages. But as Mithalla has taught, smile upon those less fortunate than you and shower them with love, or at least that is what Aerali had taught me.

Regardless, my accompaniment to the leaders of the temple had drawn the eyes of many of the Empyr’s humbled guests. I guess a foreigner attending such feasts is a strange sight around these parts or perhaps it was because of our status. It really says much about Elvhenen’s society. Back in Eskeland, it wasn't rare to see commoners assisting to noble’s parties, as a matter of fact, it was encouraged, because it was believed that it would cultivate a good relationship between lords and subjects. No one here knew I was actually a noble and the heir to a duchy from Eskeland, not even Aerali. I never really found a moment to tell her, I didn’t even know what she would have thought if I did, but at that moment I kept quiet about it.The feast went well, I had the chance to meet many people of high prestige and I got the chance to experience how people in Elvhenen partied.

The foods of the feast were exotic and rare, a testament to the power an Empyr held within the government of their region. I had discussed in length many of the dishes laid out across three massive tables that stretched the entirety of the Palace dining hall, his name being that of Lord Nisil, an old elf of 117 years old, though a mind as sharp as a Dhorvasi dagger. While Aerali spoke in depth with Cleric Zalos and Empyr Sarudin Malanis at his own table, I was dragged around the Palace by Lord Nisil, talking my ear off about his life, his children, and grandchildren. At first, I maintained an aura of faux interest to appease him but it seemed that I couldn't fade away or escape his grasp.

As time went on, I'd meet other elven nobles while in the company of Nisil, and they would also confirm his stories of old. He told me of how he remembered the days of the Rai Empire of Blacklight, the last stand of the Aelythine League, the last days of Sovereign Ttsyn, and the destruction of Segh in the great tsunami. He even spoke of how his elven clan traveled the great distance between the deep Eternals to the outskirts of Segh to help it's many fleeing refugees. It was amazing to hear of such an old one's wisdom for life and it would begin to consume me as I listened, just to know that this man, this elf, had forgotten more things through his years than I will ever learn in my entire lifetime. I sometimes find myself regretting the fact that I most likely will not live to see one hundred, though I hold out hope that I will. I desperately wish to see our world unfold through advancement of our technologies and our many societies. I enjoyed the conversation. The rest of the feast went smoothly, I was able to enjoy myself as much as I could.

When the feast was over, Aerali and I went back to her home. It was late and we were pretty tired. The feast lasted a lot longer than I expected, but I’m sure Aerali is more than used to these sorts of feasts. Back home while shorter, they were more energy consuming, no matter what type of feast it was, mainly due to the heavy drinking, all the dancing and the amount of debauchery the guests tend to indulge themselves in. We arrived at her house, well, our house, at that point I had come to call it my house too, at least it felt like home. Aerali and I no longer slept in separate rooms. After that night, she told me she wanted me to sleep with her every night, and of course, I couldn’t refuse. Aerali was so tired that she immediately went to bed.

I lay awake that night, father, with Aerali sound asleep next to me, wondering what would become of Eskeland in the next one hundred years. The chaos of the north pushed ever closer to our own borders and in many ways I wonder if we could fight them off. There were so many thoughts in my head that night, but there was one that still bothered me more than the rest, my secret, the fact that I was a noble and someday I would have to come back home and assume my duties once more. What would she think of me then? I knew I couldn't stay here forever, I couldn’t escape my duties. I had no wish to see her heart broken like that, we were deeply in love. Father, I had no idea what to do, she couldn’t leave her duties like this either. The more I kept thinking about it, the worse it became, it made me anxious. I wouldn’t be able to sleep properly the rest of the night.

The next morning Aerali woke up, to find me already out of bed. I was downstairs, sitting in one of the chairs, looking outside the window, she came up to me, she looked worried about me, and it was with good reason, I looked like I hadn’t slept, which was the case. She asked me what was wrong. The whole night I spent it thinking and eventually I came to the conclusion that I had to tell her, It was better to say the truth than to keep a secret from your beloved one. I tried to find the courage to look at her and when I finally did I told her, “Aerali, I…I have something to tell you, a secret I have been keeping ever since the soldiers first found me on the beach.” Aerali sat down beside me and looked at me, and that’s when I spoke, “I am not just any sailor, I was the captain of that ship and I am also a noble, first in line to inherit my father’s duchy and… and…I must eventually return back home to resume my duties, I know this might surprise you, but I thought it would be best if I told you now, rather than keeping this a secret until the day I have to go back. I don’t know what you think of me now, but let it be known that I love you and I wish I could take you back home, but I don’t know how the temple may react to that request.”

Her eyes had become saddened and her head slumped a bit as she turned her gaze to her small hands, fidgeting with their own fingers and a long bout of silence followed my words and my heart ached heavily. It was like I could feel her heart splitting in two, like I was everything to her in the days we spent in her home, holding one another and enjoying each other's company. It went much further than simply sexual gratification. For hours, we would talk and I learned of her upbringing in the Eternals with her parents and how she lost her father to a rival clan from the northernmost reaches, one that had since been wiped from memory. We found many common grounds on several issues and I could feel the intelligence blossom from her like a wildflower in the lush fields soaked in sun.

"I see." Her words cut through the thick fog of silence and distance, startling me. "I had known of your higher status from the beginning, Valeriy. I could tell it from your clothes. I did not care because your history was none of my concern. I was there simply as a healer, to bring you back from the depths of the cold and dark. It has....grown into so much more since and this time I've had with you has been the best years of my life." She said, placing her hand upon mine and warmly smiling at me. "I understand your duties and your commitment to your country. It is for this reason that I....won't....stand in your way. As painful as it is, I will not stop you from doing your duty. In fact, my position as Vice Cleric has been put in jeopardy. Cleric Zalos has noticed my devotion to you, despite not declaring marriage. It has....tarnished my relationship with him."

I knew this would end up being a problem at the end, and not asking her hand in marriage seemed to have ruined her relationship with Cleric Zalos, “If only there was a way I could stay with you, while you carried out your duties with no problems, it would be a blessing, I really love you and I wouldn’t be able to take the thought of staying away from you like this...” I told her. We spent some time sitting in silence, the moment became more awkward as time passed on but it was interrupted when Aerali spoke, she had an idea.

“If not declaring marriage with me has hurt my relationship with the Temple, then….” She paused for a moment, looking down at her soft hands as they caressed one another.

“Then declare me your wife. I….I know that it is most likely not customary for those in Eskeland, but….if this is our only way, then we must. If you love me like you say, then by Mithalla, you will show me.” She said, with a fire in her voice I hadn’t been exposed to, yet.

Without hesitation I told her I would marry her, I stood up from my chair, then kneeled in front of her, I took out a ring I had in my pocket, it wasn’t the most beautiful one but it was good enough to use to signify our union, I then took her hand and inserted it on her finger. I had no idea if this is how they did it in Elvhenen, but at least back home this was the way.

At first, she seemed confused by my display of kneeling and taking her hand. With a puzzled look on her face, she smiled as she examined the ring upon her finger. “So, this is how marriage is done in Eskeland? Usually, Mithallans aren’t nearly as…..dramatic.” She said with a chuckle following the inquisitive statement. She took my face into her hands and as she stroked my cheek, she pulled her head against mine and as our foreheads touched, she closed her eyes. “I like it.” She whispered.

In the following days since our newly forged engagement, she had effortlessly begun to plan for our marriage ceremony. This is where conflicts began to arise. There were many differences between our marriage customs. In Eskeland, apart from first asking someone's hand in marriage, weddings were usually accompanied by a tourney, then a feast, with a lot of drinking and dancing and the usual casual act of debauchery, and finally a sword exchanging ceremony.

Most of these were not typical of any Eternalic Elven wedding, much less those belonging to the Mithallan faith. Marriage ceremonies, as deemed correct by the celestial scriptures, focus on quiet conversation, worshiping at the altars, and doing so within the Temple. To marry the Vice Cleric would ensure that the Eskelian marriage rites were to be done away with. Of course, this would appease Aerali. Then again, doing so would assuredly end my part in Heillenism. To forsake Heill, to cast away Farehir, to turn my back on everything I’ve ever known. And in this new chapter of my life, I would embrace the Celestial Goddess Mithalla. But it would take me some time to leave them behind. We eventually settled our differences and decided to do the wedding her way. It would certainly be interesting, I thought to myself.

With the blessing of the church after my conversion, we set out to plan the wedding, many people were going to attend, friends of hers as well as new friends of mine I gained. I wished you were here too father and my old crew, but it seemed I was the only one lucky enough to survive, supposedly, maybe some did survive but ended up somewhere else. Some local nobles even agreed to come, the members of the church too. Days of preparation later, the day of the wedding came. I had bought adequate clothes for the occasion. Aerali was not with me at that moment, she was in the temple waiting for me. To say I wasn’t excited and nervous at the same time,would be a lie. This was something foreign to me, I was scared of ruining it.

As I stood outside of the Temple, the windows had been draped in silk sheets of gold, the banner of the seven pointed star flying high above as dozens of servants and members of the church surrounded me, draping me in a cloak of blue as I approached the main entry into the Temple. Once I had entered within, chanting had begun. It was all unlike anything I’d ever heard. Rows of figures dressed in white cloaks, their faces hidden, their head bowed, chanted in an old elvish dialect. Ahead of me, I saw her. Wearing a flowing dress in the colors of grey, her head also covered with a hood, she stood facing forward. I approached her and as I did, she turned slowly. Facing her, I pulled her hood down and it revealed her painted face. Her face painted white, her pointed ears were sheathed in a gold plating that surrounded them. Hanging from her neck was a pendant of the seven pointed star.

From the furthest room of the Temple emerged Zalos, adorned in a white and crimson cloak, draped in gold and silver jewelry, an obsidian ring upon his finger. He approached us and stopped just shy.

“From the celestial scriptures as given to us by the Goddess, we know of the importance of marriage, the connection of two souls in love, duty, and companionship. When Mithalla created the heavens and Arkonos, she created us to love one another, be they human, elf, dsen, khemakh, dwarf. We are all created with Mithalla’s love and we must aspire to love one another like Mithalla loves us. Valeriy.” He said, turning his gaze to me.

“The Goddess Maescia has filled you with the gift of love and devotion and to procreate is one of this world’s most treasured and sacred gifts. Do you swear to uphold the Sacred Mandate as is required for any faithful Mithallan? To love Aerali as your wife and see to the future of your own family?” Zalos said.

“Yes” I said, it was an obvious answer. I was surprised but glad that the beginning was similar to our ways. The priest turned to Aerali, and repeated the same to her. Her answer was the same. Then we kissed as the priest recited the last words. Cheers and applause came as we kept our passionate kiss, it was different from any other. It was magical. When that part of the wedding was over we proceeded to do the rest of the customs of the wedding. Finally after all of that, the wedding ended, and we were happily married.

I took some time to speak with the Cleric Zalos and I spoke to him about my situation and my true identity. He was less surprised about my identity and more about what would be of me, yet he understood perfectly. He asked me if back in Eskeland there were any faithful to Mithalla, I of course told him yes, then told him about a part of the elven population that still believed in her and had temples set up that were not recognised by the central authority. He pondered for a moment the possibility of transferring Aerali and despite his reservations in losing a faithful member of his clergy, Cleric Zalos agreed to speak with the High Cleric in Mithranus and see to her transfer as Vice Cleric of one of the Temples in Eskeland.

----------------

….With my wife’s transfer nearing completion, I wish to tell you father. That your son is coming home. I can’t wait to see how everything has changed. Feels like an eternity since the last time I was there. Can’t wait for you to meet Aerali. I hope that by the time all of this reaches you, we already have set sail. See you soon father.

The letter stopped there with the more than clear words, Georg’s son, Valeriy, was coming back home and not alone, but with a wife. Some tears of joy came down from his face dropping onto the letter. He closed the letter, placed it back with the rest, blew out the candle beside him, then stood up from his chair, finally he left the room, slowly closing the door behind him.

Chirenai, Ryeongse, Eskeland, and Nesketos

Approaching the Capital

Jaukusu and the army with him approached the Pusum Tzecam, the river which for many generations had stood as a key part of the northern border of Nesketos. On one side, the recently conquered Delynthos. On the other, a portion of Maspulagi which was controlled and owned, according to the Land Court, by the House ne Cakuvis. ne Cakuvis was the most powerful family in the Thiton, and until recently had been the house to which the Archon had belonged, though since the previous Archon’s passing, the office was controlled by the closely aligned House Pesku. Jaukusu knew of course that he would likely face pushback by the Puedes He, but they could not oppose him in the lands of ne Cakuvis or Pesku. They would be prevented by those houses from engaging in any official capacity. The one thing Jaukusu could count on the Puedes He to do was wait for him to go further into Nesketan land before acting, doing whatever they had decided to do. Beyond that, he did not know.

Despite having lost troops in battle, Jaukusu was now returning with more troops than he had left with at the beginning of his campaign. The bolstering of the army came from the contingent of Crotaclean rangers under Eutropios, perhaps to many in Nesketos rather an unexpected sight – while the army had taken Heleni with it as vhepasi, levied soldiers, the presence of an elite Heleni regiment was unexpected to say the least. The Nesi Natui also returned with the majority of its contingent intact, though throughout all of Nesketos they had only numbered 500 Ikori before the conflict. Their numbers were not too badly harmed now. On the long march home, their cloaks had remained black as night, their spears had remained sharp and ready, and their wits had remained deadly. But those unaware of Jaukusu’s own political predicament were simply ready to make their way home.

The Tzecam Delta, a boggy marshland of wet ground and swamps, was not the optimal place to cross. Nor indeed was the Tucagi, otherwise known as ‘the Neck’, the riverside just north of the Delta, as its lands were controlled mostly by allies of the House ne Meaga, fierce rivals of the Archon and most of his plans, Jaukusu knew. The next best option was the small village of Acamec, north of Tucagi and the Delta, yet south of the confusing lands known as the Puecatamus, a series of minor Karku houses with whom few could truly make diplomatic headway. Acamec lay at the correct position, with a lake located west of a perfect crossing, a bridge somewhat ill-maintained, but better than any of the alternate options. The aristocrat Risdesu had told Jaukusu of the village, evidently intending he use it. The army snaked south along a mud-path, marching as a column, before finally reaching the river. As they approached the river, however, two of Eutropios’ rangers halted Jaukusu.

“Speak swiftly,” Eutropios bade them. The rangers paused before continuing.

“There’s a complication,” one began, “An Ikori on horseback waits just over the river from us. Decorated. Similar to the General,” the first ranger gestured to Jaukusu. Eutropios looked over to Jaukusu, whose own face betrayed slight annoyance at the news.

“The Puedes He...” he cursed under his breath, “Just the one?”

“Alone,” the first ranger continued. Jaukusu turned back to Eutropios.

“The Nesketan college of Generals. They’ve probably sent one to lure me to where an army is waiting for me. They will try to arrest me.”

Eutropios furrowed his brow, his whiskers twitching; “Is this how Nesketos welcomes its conquering leaders? What cause have they to arrest you?”

Jaukusu made a soft groaning sound, “I… may not have acted according to their wishes by engaging in this campaign.”

Eutropios placed his hand upon his brow; “Of course, I’ve been travelling with a rogue general, as if my life could become any better,” he sighed as he brushed the fur on his face, “So what are they waiting for? Why don’t they attack as soon as you cross?”

“Same reason we travelled down a dirt track to reach this out-of-the-way crossing.”

“Internal politics,” Eutropios surmised, “So they need to reach friendly land, same as you?”

“Naturally,” Jaukusu responded, clicking his incisors.

“How do we overcome this?” Eutropios asked, truly believing there to be a way to fix the problem. Jaukusu considered his options carefully for a few moments, possibilities rushing through his head. Finally, he settled on a course of action.

“Let’s see who they sent,” Jaukusu stated with finality.

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Incristu sat atop his horse with a pigeon-cage under his arm. He had not seen the scouts ahead of the army. He had fully expected not to – vhepas scouts were easy to spot, and no-one sent the Nesi Natui to scout at the head of an army. But Crotacleans, they had a reputation. One does not spot the Crotaclean rangers unless they wanted to be spotted. At least, so the legends went. Incristu hadn’t been as concerned as the other generals of the Puedes He when he heard that Jaukusu had allied with the Crotacleans. In fact, he had admired Jaukusu’s ingenuity, secretly at least. Perhaps in the circumstance, he could see himself doing the same thing.

But regardless of his personal thoughts on Jaukusu’s endeavours, he knew that stopping him was necessary. Jaukusu’s actions endangered Nesketos, all of her people, everything they stood for. Surely he did not mean to – that was all that Incristu could surmise. But Zatu had told the Puedes He the King’s prophecy, and it had seemed conclusive. Perhaps it was only the King who would truly be able to tell if the prophecy was interpreted correctly, but it was not Incristu’s position to question the Puedes He’s de facto leader.

Along the path that approached the bridge on the other side of the river, Incristu saw the advance party of the army. It was to be expected that they would know where he was, and they would probably know he knew. It was good to be on the same page, at least. The army came closer, until finally the advance rangers passed, and the four Ikori on horseback levelled with Incristu himself. His time came now.

“Jaukusu!” Incristu called out to the general. Jaukusu’s head turned slowly, their eyes meeting. The returning general gestured with his hand to signal the column to form-up on this side of the river, which his two Lieutenants saw to afterward. Incristu dismounted his horse, leaving the pigeon on his saddle, as Jaukusu did the same – the former moved towards the latter, a smile upon his face and arm outstretched. The two generals gripped each others’ forearms.

“Incristu,” Jaukusu responded, “It has been a while.”

“That it has,” the general smiled warmly, though Jaukusu remained fairly cool. Incristu had wondered if the returning general would go willingly, whether he would make trouble, or whether he even knew that the Puedes He planned to arrest him. Jaukusu gestured to the fourth individual on horseback. Incristu didn’t particularly recognise him, but the Heleni style of his armour made him out to be the likely commander of the Crotacleans now comprising a portion of Jaukusu’s army.

“May I introduce King Eutropios of Crotaclea,” Jaukusu continued. Incristu was somewhat surprised by this development. While the Puedes He knew that Jaukusu had allied with Crotaclea, a Heleni King was not the kind of individual he expected to find in Jaukusu’s army. What has he tempted this King with, Incristu pondered as the Ikori approached on horseback. Incristu bowed respectfully.

“Welcome to Nesketos, King Eutropios,” Incristu spoke reverently, “I take it you have decided to form an alliance with Nesketos?”

“Decided is somewhat of an overstatement,” Eutropios spoke deliberately and slowly, “But ally with Nesketos, I will.”

Jaukusu stepped in to make Incristu’s own introduction; “King Eutropios, this is General Incristu of the Puedes He, a brilliant officer of training and strategy;” Incristu scoffed, but Jaukusu doubled down; “He is responsible for the training of many of the vhepas troops currently on display in my army.”

“Indeed?” Eutropios responded, a degree of interest in his voice, “I must admit, though the majority of praise always seems to go to the discipline of your Nesi Natui, you cannot fault your vhepas troops for their own training and discipline. You should be commended.”

“Believe me,” Incristu spoke, raising his hands as he continued, “If I had my way, most of the Nesketan army would be professional rather than levied.”

The King cocked his head, “And who halts that development?”

Incristu looked from the King to Jaukusu. He smiled, evidently avoiding the question, and politely, the King refused to pursue further. The troops were finishing their arrangement by the side of the river, and Jaukusu gestured to the troops, looking back to Incristu.

“Care to inspect the troops with me?”

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The army continued through the lands of Nesketos at a brisk pace. Obviously they no longer faced the risk of an enemy army at their heels, though how much of a risk that would have been could be in question. The army was well capable of dealing with its own enemies, the campaign had proven that. And yet the army moved swiftly. Jaukusu appeared steely in his forward determination, and his Lieutenants seemed just as confused by the determination as Eutropios was. Eutropios himself was unsure what to make of the uncomfortable meeting of the two generals. This new one, Incristu, was equally quiet, though appeared just as uncomfortable with the meeting as Eutropios was. Based on what Jaukusu had said, it seemed as if Incristu would be leading them all to a larger army, which would arrest the orchestrators of some grand plot… Eutropios wondered why the Nesketans were so internally inconsistent, when their army had proven its ability to attack its enemies easily. Had some great beast been held back by internal disunity? Was Jaukusu’s ambition, and that of the government he believed in, something that would unleash devastation onto the entire region? Eutropios was now more conflicted than ever. He could never have overcome Nesketos alone, but was joining with it also a poor move? So many questions… He decided to take his mind off of these things, and spoke to Incristu.

“Of course, now that Crotaclea is officially to become part of Nesketos, the rangers are to become officially part of your military also. I am sure they shall supplement your military forces well.”

Incristu raised an eyebrow in an expression of surprise, “Ah! I must thank you. I am sure you are aware of the legendary status of your rangers.”

“Indeed I am,” Eutropios spoke proudly, “As, I am sure, do they. Your Nesi Natuisas complement them well.”

Incristu chuckled as the group rode along the path, “I’m afraid we can’t take much congratulation in that regard. The Nesi Natui keeps to itself – all training is done internally. They have their own ranks and training structures. You may be aware of their… Habits involving venom?”

“Building up resistance through exposure,” Eutropios responded, “How have they remained separate from the military?”

“They started out that way,” Incristu answered, “The vhepasi are offered by each house as part of a tax. We look after their training and give them something to do for a while, but they are only levies.”

Eutropios furrowed his brow, “So, since the houses of the Thiton provide the troops for one, while the other is professional, they cannot mix?”

“Oil and water,” Incristu chuckled, “If the whole army was professional, I’m sure the Nesi Natui would be rolled into the army. Alas, the Puedes He drags its heels on reforming the army as such.”

“Indeed it does,” Jaukusu responded, not looking back. Incristu fell silent, somewhat embarrassed. Eutropios looked between the two, somewhat stunned by their reluctance to speak on the matter.

“Neither one of you like the Puedes He,” Eutropios surmised. Jaukusu glanced backward, gesturing for Incristu to respond. He finally did.

“It’s not a matter of ‘liking’ it,” Incristu spoke, as if a weight was removed, “It’s all about recognising the good it does.”

“And what good does it do?”

Incristu signed deeply, “The Archon holds a great deal of sway over the Thiton. The Thiton technically elect him, but increasingly, he has been pushing them to pass the reforms he wants, select the successor he wants. The Archon also selects the members of the Land Court, and in theory they act as a counterweight to the Thiton, but as the Archon holds sway over them too, the system is unbalanced. The Puedes He, once merely the organisers of military affairs, act as a check on the power of the Archon. He is forbidden from ordering a unilateral military action as long as we are around.”

Eutropios looked toward Jaukusu. The implication was clear. Incristu and Jaukusu would have been natural allies if internal military matters were all that either cared about. But Incristu cared about the balance of power in Nesketos. Eutropios couldn’t tell if Jaukusu simply didn’t care, or if he relished being in the pocket of the Archon.

“So, Jaukusu,” Incristu continued, “What do you feel about all this?”

“Nesketans squabbling with Nesketans…” Jaukusu mused, clicking his front teeth together as he did so, “I prefer unity to division.”

The silence lay upon the air, the tension between them palpable. The pigeon in Incristu’s cage cooed softly in the afternoon sun.

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The sounds of the nighttime surrounded Achaikos’ camp. The General himself sat in his tent, drawing up intensely detailed battle plans. The land upon which he sat was a plain, surrounded by sparse farmlands, around a road through which Jaukusu’s army would be forced to move by Incristu. A confusing patchwork of disparate houses, all with complex internal loyalties, littered the land further east, and to the west lay the lands of the House ne Meaga, through which Jaukusu would not want to travel. No, the General would want to travel down this road anyway. This land was owned by the house Detzanu, who had proven to be incredibly neutral in all of the Archon’s many affairs. Convincing them to allow the Puedes He to set up a roadblock here was fairly easy, and only required some small payments and allowances for their vhepasi levies to be quietly sent home for a few years. Achaikos actually took pride in his convincing of the house. It was perhaps underhanded, but as the final option other than letting the troops march straight to the gates of the city, it was a measure that had to be taken. And he had succeeded.

Now he merely had to wait.

A vhepas soldier entered the tent, carrying a leather pouch, one that would be found on a carrier pigeon. Achaikos knew what this meant. He picked up yet another leather pouch to give to the soldier. The battle would occur tomorrow.

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The first proper indication that Jaukusu had of Achaikos’ army was word from the Crotaclean rangers he had yet again sent out front. While receiving the news, he and Incristu had shared some rather intense stares. Incristu’s pigeon-cage had laid empty since the night prior, which had already been a topic both Generals steered well clear of. But hearing concretely that an army lay on the road in front of them… It felt like a direct betrayal. But the army moved forward. Jaukusu knew there was no avoiding this completely. He would have to face the Puedes He, and it might as well be here. Let combat determine the rightness of his actions. Finally, as the fog cleared after the morning, the black banners of yet another Nesketan host could be seen across the plain. They were remaining still, watching Jaukusu’s army as it approached. Jaukusu moved his army into a line. Someone on the opposing side blew a horn and waved a grey flag. Parlay.

Jaukusu, Incristu and Eutropios moved into the centre of the battlefield on horseback. Two from the opposing side also rode out. As they met in the centre, Incristu wheeled around to the opposite side. The five stood in silence for a moment. It was Achaikos who spoke first.

“You have some nerve, Jaukusu,” he said, his voice angry and bitter.

“I could say the same of you,” Jaukusu responded, “Will you not let my army pass?”

“You know we can’t do that,” Incristu spoke sadly to his former friend, “Surrender, and none in your army have to die.”

Jaukusu scoffed, “You would kill Nesketans for doing what is in our nature? You would kill vhepasi for fighting, or Karku for conquering? Would you kill a hawk for hunting, or a baker for making bread?”

Achaikos reached over for the other rider, who handed him a scroll. Upon it was inscribed the list of charges.

“General Jaukusu, you are under arrest by Martial order of the Puedes He. Your crimes include secrecy, disobeying orders, insubordination, treason…”

“Treason?” Jaukusu spat back, “When have I done anything that was not for the betterment of Nesketos? How have my actions harmed her in any way?”

“You may not understand, but your actions place us on a dangerous path…” Incristu began.

“You’re right,” Jaukusu responded, “I don’t understand how realising our true potential could bring anything but greatness to our nation.”

“You will listen to the charges!” Achaikos shouted back to Jaukusu.

“To hell with your charges! Lejenna!” Jaukusu spat into the dirt. The party remained silent.

“King Eutropios of Crotaclea,” Incristu spoke respectfully, “You have not engaged in such reckless endangerment of the nation. If your men would simply step aside, you will be permitted to enter into arrangements with Nesketos as far as we are permitted to offer.”

Eutropios lay silent for a moment, considering his options. Jaukusu wheeled back on his horse, whispering into the King’s ear.

“I would think no less of you if you take their offer.”

He turned back to face the opposing generals. Eutropios knew his answer.

“I will not step aside,” he spoke sternly, “If I am to pledge myself to Nesketos, I would pledge to a Nesketos that I can trust,” he gestured to Jaukusu, “I do not know what you think of this man, or why you might mistrust him, but I trust his judgement and his strategic mind. You ought to do the same, and cease this infantile squabbling.”

Incristu was somewhat taken aback, and Achaikos’ mouth fell open. Finally, Incristu spoke.

“A final gambit, if you are so bent on this course of action;” he spoke reverently, “Our King has made a prophecy regarding your actions, Jaukusu.”

Jaukusu cocked his head with interest, “Then I would hear it, as any Nesketan should.”

“He spoke of a mistake that causes pain and despair,” Achaikos relayed the prophecy, “An attack that fails, a sword that comes down, all if you do not avert your course.”

“I’m begging you, Jaukusu,” Incristu pleaded with the rogue general, “See reason. Surrender.”

Jaukusu pondered deeply. This seemed conclusive. It seemed like a prophecy that might have been told to a member of the Puedes He, and by the King. Perhaps fate had it in store for Jaukusu, in a strange way. And yet something stopped Jaukusu from simply giving up.

“Where is the King himself to make this prophecy to me?”

Incristu exhaled a short laugh; “You know that is not how it works.”

“And yet the point remains,” Jaukusu continued, “How do I know this even came from the King at all, let alone that it refers to my conquests? I will not lay down my arms on the rumour of a prophecy. If you so fear prophecy, let me hear it firsthand. Accompany me to the capital, let me hear it, and I will lay down my arms there if I find it true.”

Incristu closed his eyes and his shoulders sunk. They could not do that, and all of them knew it. Achaikos simply glared at the rogue general, his eyes aflame with anger; “One final chance. Surrender. Now.”

Jaukusu glared straight back; “I will see you in battle, then.”

Rolais, Chirenai, Cheysal serulea, Ryeongse, and 1 otherEskeland

Revelations

Mistigarium

Though it was clear that the chill of winter was beginning to rise in the air, the aura of Geraimaa was still tranquil and calm; pleasant to his senses, and wishing to find cultivation in the flow, Melorath ordered the servants to keep the windows and balconies open. As the housestaff labored in the fair conditions, the servants outside tended to the gardens and fields.

From his upstairs balcony, Melorath could easily see out onto the fields and rolling hills. The tops of the treeline, barely visible just beyond the edge of the horizon, revealed itself to him as rippling mountain peaks of timber and green. Below, the pastures that stretched on hosted herds of sheep and shepherds, all belonging to the royal estate. The chatter of their hooves, bellowing cries and ringing bells were distant and removed, yet carried on the wind like a whisper. It was here that Melorath found his contemplation; it was here that the King of Namalar was soothed of his plight, and rejuvenated in nature and remoteness.

He considered his flight from Aurosa as something of a coup de grâce. That city—Aurosa, which was built of Kostuan heritage and Kostuan traditions; which hosted proud Kostuan pillars and Kostuan marble—was as awful as poison to him. It was a damnable city, and Melorath wondered how anything of greatness or intellect prospered from that black heart of the bay. Each swelling breath of the water’s current swept away the air like a thief, and then gave it back in a single blow, plagued with indemnity and arrogance, and ripe with rot. Each day spent there was akin to a day in jail. In his mind, Melorath was convinced a spirit towered over the city, suffocating it. Perhaps it was punishment for the Kostuan evils of the world, or it was a result of time passing as the sun finally fell on their empire.

But here, in Geraimaa, it was peace that reigned. Seated in his bedroom so that he could overlook the fields from the balcony, Melroath rested on a cushioned bench while his feet were anointed with oil. A Kostuan servant, Decius, tended to him dutifully. Usually the task would have been left to a Namari as an honor, since it permitted a private and intimate encounter with the King, but there were few elves on the estate grounds. Those soldiers who did patrol the land were not familiar to Melorath, and had already been fortunate to escape the confines of Aurosa after the short-lived rebellion threatened the entire royal guard.

Decius was dressed in a good red tunic, though it had no special embroidery afforded to it. He wore a simple sleeve of a robe on his right shoulder, which was bound at his waist by a silver brooch. He was a younger man, in his thirties, but his face was quite ageless and Melorath had taken a liking to him as one of his houseslaves. Working within the estate housing, someone unfamiliar with Namarian customs would have mistaken him as a freeman servant, not a man bound by life-long indentured servitude.

Using a small pitcher, Decius attentively poured the viscous oil over the King’s feet. It was perfumed and smelled of wildflowers and mint, which the Namari believed helped with joint pain and aging. Melorath was not lame nor in pain, but it was seen as a preventative measure that his friend and physician, Tandan, prescribed to manage his stress. At first the King seemed to dislike it and complained of slowness; he was anxious and hated sitting for thirty minutes or more, doing nothing but being left to himself. His brain running amuck. After a while, Decius noticed, his complaints faded away. The Kostuan figured that he realized the process forced him to rest, and perhaps his thoughts weren’t so awful and beguiling after all, but merely needed to be faced with concentration. Master Tandan was very wise, after all.

Stealing a look at him as Decius switched to focus on his other foot, he saw that Melorath was deep in thought. The King was looking towards the balcony, his eyes unfocused and glossed over. His arms rested forward at an angle, his hands pressing into his lap. He wondered what his master was thinking of. Probably court matters, or politics, or war. There was a hint of derision in his inner voice, as while Decius kneeled here on the floor cleaning the King’s feet, Melorath dreamed a feast of conquest. The elven warlord—and it was impossible for Decius to see him as the enlightened ruler that others claimed of him—ate away at a meal of lands and places, taking bites of Kostua and Syrduria like a starving man would a roasted pheasant. He wondered if Melorath ever considered the hardships and tragedies he forced upon conquered peoples, many who had no involvement in the wars at all. Maybe there was sadness in his soul, as he at least seemed to show no strong hatred of the Kostuan people, but he certainly did not love them.

Like the other Namari, it was easy to see that he relished in the irony of Kostua’s fall; how the people who enslaved the world and dispelled the elven regime of old were now forced to supplicate from their once-vanquished foe. Every elf was fixated on this, although some more than others. In Decius’ mind, it seemed that many Namari were practical about it. They considered Kostua’s downfall as a political sport. An exercise in martial prowess and patience. For them, it was a glorious conquest, and now Namalar was poised to conquer the world. The irony was perhaps lost on them, or they realized it but did not care. Decius considered that, had the Elven Empire of old won against his ancestors, they might have done the same. Once Melorath had spoken to him about destiny and paths, and considered that choices were finite and determinate. Perhaps he would agree that the Elven Empire of old, if victorious, would have done no better for the world. For this Namari, it was merely their ‘time’ in the sun. The sword had changed hands, and how righteous or destined or inspired they chose to make it in their eyes, it was a simple turn of the blade.

There were those cliques of course that considered the fall of Kostua to be destined and proof of elven bloodright. A supremacy of will enacted through heaven-adorned war. An act that was right with the cosmos, and balanced to the rhythmic sway of magick winds. This Decius had picked up over time from what Melorath himself said and from the few visitors he received during his stay at Geraimaa. He did not entirely understand what the Namari believed in, and sometimes thought they believed in nothing at all. They worshiped magick, but it was more complicated than that. There was an intonation to their voice when they spoke of it and their studies, not like laymen attending church for their powerful god, but like a warrior crying out for strength. It was a demanding tone. They thought they deserved it, that magick was their right and was to be controlled. Harnessed by them; not to be worshiped out of fear, but out of adoration and ambition. It embodied their souls.

Needless to say, Decius thought this was insane and wondered what virtues the Namari had that somehow kept their state and people united.

A knock at the door interrupted the thoughts of both men. Melorath quickly recovered from his introspection and looked towards the door, where he called out in plain, uninterested language.

“Who?” He said, loud enough to be heard, but with little energy or eagerness.

“It is Neloril Reledar.” A Kostuan-accented voice called out. “He has come to speak to you.”

“Enter.” The King answered, blinking slowly as he regained his composure. A Kostuan servant was the first to enter as the door swung open, followed by Neloril and a member of the estate’s guard. With a single motion of his hand, he sent the two extras away, but made sure to keep Decius occupied with finishing his work.

There was a paradoxical look across Melorath’s face. The King was obviously annoyed to have received visitors, especially at a time like this. Yet he was close to Neloril, considering him a confidant, and had not spoken to him since the… Ulanon incident.

The advisor was rough-faced and seemed tired. He wore traveling clothes, a heavy-set cloak and hood over his dress, and leather gloves with silk stitched inside.

“Splendor.” He said, his voice a little slurred as he forced through the word and straightened up.

At an instant, Melorath realized he was not tired and disheveled from the journey, but was drunk.

“Why have you come here like this Neloril?”

The older elf sighed, blowing out a puff of air.

“I had business here with Tuwana.” He coughed slightly, clearing his throat and speaking up. “The garrison was to be rotated out and I did not… trust them to do it alone. This city surrendered too easily.”

“There is no threat in Tuwana!” Melorath exclaimed, but let his voice die down quickly after.

“Maybe so, but I do not trust it. I was here, so I thought I would come to see you.”

Melorath glared, adjusting his position and forcing Decius to scoot over to continue pouring oil. “And you came drunk?”

Neloril let his tongue loll in his mouth for a second, unsure of how to answer.

“I’ve come to convince you to return to Aurosa.” He said finally.

“Ah, now I understand.” The King said, his brow raising. “You’ve drunk yourself half to sleep deciding if you should come here or not. Is that it?”

“No, no—”

“Is that it?”

Melorath said again, a severe look in his eyes as he lowered his voice.

“People talk.” Neloril said suddenly, shuffling around the room so that he was standing between the balcony and Melorath, just behind Decius who he entirely ignored.

“They talk,” He continued, “And the court talks. Your absence has been for months now. It is nearly… winter? They wonder if you will ever return.”

The King remained silent, watching Neloril intently as the man continued to speak, doing his best to fight back his mild drunkenness and deliver a compelling argument.

“This is no place for a man of your age. You’ve thrived in the court and now you live like… like a hermit? Your missives are seldom; they’ve considered what happens if you’re unfit. Who will replace you? Maybe the Teisma’s discussed it too, I don’t know. The world might stand still for you here, my brother, but do you think it waits for you in Aurosa? Eldemaram? The world still turns each day and Namalar remains without a king’s voice.”

Melorath rubbed the corner of his lip for a time as Neloril finished his words. There was a short stillness in the air before he pushed away Decius’ pitcher and ordered him curtly to remove the tub. Standing up slowly, he walked towards Neloril, causing his friend to back up against the windows beside the balcony door.

“If you were not my friend,” Melorath said with a rising tempo, grabbing Neloril’s wrist with his hand, “and furthermore if you were not my faithful ally all these years, I think I would have you whipped for these words. Coming here, like this? If you were not my friend, I would have had you thrown out.”

Releasing his wrist, Melorath moved his hand to his friend’s shoulder, shaking it as he continued speaking.

“But you are right, I suppose.” He painfully admitted. “Perhaps I’ve grown deluded or weak. To think that I could nurture myself from here. Foolish.”

Neloril looked down as he replied, his face flushed with embarrassment.

“I could not standby as you risk this kingdom you’ve earned. I would face any punishment if it means you leave here and return to Aurosa. The court is meek in your absence.”

“Is that why you were drinking?” Melorath inquired, his mouth agape. “You were afraid of retribution? As if this is a trial? Do you fear me?”

The King stayed quiet for a moment, but his grip tightened on Neloril’s shoulder as he broke eye contact for a time. Eventually he looked back, his pose weakened and his eyes much more somber.

“You’ve insulted me to think I am some animal who would punish his friend for speaking truth. Nothing you’ve said is a lie. Sure, I hate your words, but you needed to say them. I needed to hear them.”

Releasing his grip, Melorath broke away as he walked out onto the balcony for a moment. He caught a breath of fresh air as Neloril collected himself, having been surprised by his friend, and now feeling ashamed of himself for having come in such a manner as he did. It was a foolish thing.

Returning to the room, Melorath shut the door behind him and looked to his left, contemplating Neloril.

“As you’ve done for me, I will do for you.” He said, then dropping his friendly demeanor at once, turned to speaking poison and venom as he eyed the Namarian.

“Tomorrow I will leave for Aurosa. You will come with me.” Glaring at him, he made his point clear. “You will never drink again. At least in my presence. If I ever see you like this again, I will kill you.”

Walking in front of him, Melorath rubbed the side of Neloril’s neck gently as he spoke. “To come into my home a ragged mess. You are a good man, Neloril. Much too wise and useful to be wasted like this. Never again! Do you hear me? Never again.”

Looking away as Neloril choked out an apology, Melorath remembered his servant in the room and spied Decius standing silently in the corner.

“Decius!” He barked. “Take him to a bedroom. He can sleep off his stupidity and speak to me later.”

The servant nodded and gestured for Neloril to follow him, and as the two men left the drawing room, Melorath watched in silence as the door shut behind them. For a few seconds, he stood in good composure, but this quickly lapsed into anger as he considered what his friend had said. It was like a childhood ignorance being destroyed all again. That he imagined he could stay here forever and that there would be no consequences. He felt like a fool, and realized all at once that he was only running away from his duties.

This angered him even more, and finding his soft shoes, he fitted them on as he sat down. Sliding the discarded tub of oil away with the side of his foot, he spilled some of the oil on the wood floor haphazardly. Exhaling heavily, Melorath glared with brooding eyes towards the world outside, which had turned to sour and rot now. Resting his hands on his outstretched legs, he sat with a hunched back as he pinched his lips and contemplated Neloril’s arrival. Any joy that he had here was tarnished, destroyed in a few minutes of revelation. The elven advisor was like a prophet, bringing tidings of doom with him that cast Melorath away from his peaceful gardens as a sinner.

His resolution was absolute. Tomorrow he will leave and begin the journey back to Aurosa. In hindsight, this absence, especially at such an important time as now for the kingdom, was utterly unacceptable. Neloril made it clear that the Namarians lacked a master; how could he hope to relax these reins and let the steed ride itself? Part of him considered retribution. If the court doubted him, he should destroy it. That was too barbaric. He had placated the Teisma with promises of returning to the previous measured rule of his people.

His return would be enough. The kingdom needed to be restored with trustworthy, capable agents who Melorath could trust in his absence. Hiding away here was his own failure, but it was also true that Melorath could not rule and preside everywhere at once. It was time to cultivate a new generation of capable figures.

Enjoying the silence that came with Neloril and his servant departing, Melorath realized he had much to think about. More than he had even considered. The revelation that had been delivered to him was coarse and pitiful, but the rudeness of it made it all the more true.

Rolais, Chirenai, Saeju, Syrduria, and 3 othersRyeongse, Eskeland, and Straulechen

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Saeju

The Mandate
Founding, Chapter 1

“Your most beautiful and radiant majesty, the insolence of the Southern and Northern Wardens cannot be allowed to fester,” complained the Grand Hierophant Dara . He was an elderly crane avernai with thinning and bleaching patches of feathers.

Himself and the Grand Vizier Kheen, a comparatively younger, middle aged eagle avernai with golden-brown plumage, stood before the great stone throne dais and the Dragon Emperor Rak’kretai that sat upon it. Though he seemed hardly amused, even if that was just how his large draconic face was structured, it could not be denied that he was indeed a beautiful and radiant creature. Brilliant and bright white featherlike scales flowed across his body and spread the light like iridescent pearls that made him glow in the torch and fire light. Upon his head and between his horns was an intricate crown of precious metal and jewels that dangled and connected by a thin chain to a mantle that hung upon his shoulders.

The Vizier rolled his eyes.

“Your Radiance,” he said as he stepped forward and bowed deeply, “the ‘Noble Hierophant’s’ complaints of the Southern and Northern Wardens aside, we have had many legitimate concerns coming from the outlying territories of the Domain.”

“Elaborate,” Rak’kretai’s deep yet melodious and young sounding voice rumbled in the hall.

“Bandits and Brigands waylaying travelers along the trails and impeding the effort to connect the North and South physically by way of constructing proper roads,” he began, “Vulture and Rogue Raiders terrorizing villages out of reach of response from the Legions, and…”

He paused.

“And what, Vizier,” the Emperor asked. A great eyebrow raised and his golden eyes flashed.

“And resistant elements,” Kheen finished. “Some who have refused to acknowledge the Domain’s Authority and that of your Radiance, refusing to pay the Tithe with Feathers, Supplies, or Coin. Though I would mark that as the Hierophant being less than per-”

“You want to put the failure of the collection of Tithe onto me, Kheen,” Dara exclaimed angrily.

“If you were more gentle in your missions of expanding the Emperor’s Truth, then perhaps there would be less resistance, and more in the coffers. Your Inquisition has cost us more time, blood, and resources than should be considered necessary. By his majesty’s own word, Conversion is a secondary priority compared to actually gaining their tribute and acknowledgement of the Emperor’s Authority.”

“I will have you know, that what I and mine have done has been far more influential in maintaining the structure and expanding the Emperor’s domain than your rifle appe-”

“Enough,” Rak’kretai grumbled again, this time his voice far deeper and more imperious. “If you have come here to simply squabble, then you will leave me.”

“But your Radiance, we-,” Dara began to protest, but a wordless glance from the slitted eye Rak’kretai dissuaded him.

"We will take our leave, your Imperial Grace," the Vizier bowed his head and spread his arms wide.

The two then strutted out quietly, and the two attending Dragon Guard at the door tapped the blunt ends of their polearms on the floor, and the doors to the chamber closed.

His chamber closed and finally left alone, Rak'kretai let out a low and rumbling sigh.

"Politics," he thought to himself.

For decades he has ruled The People, The Domain. Only some sixty or so years. None who followed him questioned him. Both the Hierophant and the Vizier were loyal, and both would gladly give their lives if he demanded it. If he demanded it, they would sacrifice themselves upon his very own throne, just because he said it, but that isn't what he demanded.

What troubled him was the petty disputes that still managed to arise among his own devotees. Kheen and Dara have been the Vizier and Hierophant for some years now respectively, and both had a great dislike for one another. That was evident enough.

By all accounts, Dara was a fanatic that wanted to wage a holy war upon the world to expand Rak'kretai's Truth of the Divine Tempest, or rather the Imperial Dragon Cult as it was known to the Greater parts of the Empire and in the lands bordering it. Any form of dissent or contradiction of what he saw as rightful doctrine was heresy to be destroyed. He was the leader of a faith that effectively was the de jure truth of the Empire, but in fact was a grand minority to the traditional faith of the Avernai. His power, while limited, was potent.

Then there was Kheen. He was a member of the Dragon Guard once. Rak'kretai's dedicated protectors and personal enforcers. He'd distinguished himself as a captain for the way his troops were organized, he ascended to become an administrator of sorts, far for suiting of him than as a soldier, and then at last chosen by the Emperor himself as the Vizier. But that mentality of a soldier stayed with him. He was practical. He was careful. He was resourceful. But when it came to the governing of his Emperor's Domain, he would suffer no one else butting into his jurisdiction. He oversaw the homeland. He did not care if one was one of the faithful so long as the Tithe was paid and Order was maintained, so he and the Hierophant came to words easily.

Such were the politics of the inner workings of the Empire. Between maintaining sway over the North and South and the multitude of smaller tributaries in between, the Secular and the Faith were in regular dispute.

Rak'kretai was unfortunately caught in the middle of such things, and many who sought audience for his wisdom often asked for blessings and answers to questions even though he had seldom pondered but troubled his realm daily. Both sides looked to him for guidance as Emperor and Divine Savior.

But such thoughts often led Rak'kretai into darkness within his own mind and so determined it best to retire. In a jangle of jewelry and swish of his tail, the Emperor stood from his lounging on the Throne slab and turned to walk around the rough stone column that acted as the backdrop of the throne, carved with scenes from History. The Ancient Age of the Avernai Kingdoms and the Savoset Invasions, the Discovery of Rak’kretai’s Egg in the loving but cold embrace of the Dead Mother by the escaped slaves who were the First Dragon Guard. All of it afterwards from his own hatching so vivid in his mind.

Behind the column, which really was more of a thick wall than anything, was a tunnel that led back and expanded into a wide open circular chamber rimmed with stacks and stacks of papers and parchments and tomes, and towards the middle where there was a single large pillar that towards the top expanded out to be like the branches of a tree around a single large hole in the ceiling and was marked with spiraling holes along it, was an assembly of upsized alchemical equipment that remained still.

When his mind wandered, Rak’kretai often indulged it in academics, philosophy, and craftsmanship of many different kinds of potions, elixirs, and even poisons. Of most of his library’s collection he could recite perfectly, but not all, as there were still many that he had not gotten through. But of them he had his favorites: “Treatise on Spiritual Enlightenment and the Mystic Arts” by the Savoset mage-priest Yaku and “Halak’s Ruminations on the Avernai Kingdoms,” written by the ancient Avernai philosophical politician whose name was in its title. His in particular was in some part prophetic, detailing the need for a Great Avernai Confederacy in order to defend against the Savoset threat arising in the East. But the many Kingdoms were still divided and feuding, and by the time anyone had deigned to listen it was too late

The ones who brought him the savoset texts in his collection were quite curious about it, and Rak’kretai had simply said, “There is no harm in knowledge for knowledge’s sake. We can shun the Savoset and their Empire, or the Others from across the sea and their Foreign Gods whose love is false and fickle, but their wisdom and knowledge should not be cast aside.”

His wisdom. Many came to him for his wisdom. Oftentimes he wondered how he came to be in such a position when even by Draconic standards for all he could gather, he was still but a young wyrmling.

He knew the tale well enough. That during the war between the Savoset and the Yuannic Gorrin, It was taken as a sign of the divine that escaped slaves discovered a single pale egg in the embrace of his dead mother, succumbed to her wounds in a battle against a Thunderbird. That very same scene displayed on his throne.

He was not sure whether he was actually a divine savior himself or not. Whether he was a mortal incarnation of the will of the Spirits and Gods. But for how much he didn’t know, he also in some part of himself didn’t want to or need to know. He didn't particularly care for Faith, particularly that which saw him as an emissary of divine will. But what he did feel was a calling of the spirit that loved The People and instilled in him a need to Protect and to Guide. He felt a need to repay those people who protected him for so long in the long nights that the Savoset slave masters so long hunted for the rumored dragon.

But that wasn’t to say there weren’t temptations, which then brought him to another great slab of stone in his private hall, laden with large pieces of paper, volcanic soot, and jugs of water. Having barrels of ink at his disposal would be impractical, so he simply requested that his attendants gather the abundant residue from the volcanic mountains and simply mix it with water to make a functional replacement. That is what he used to write his own thoughts.

He lounged on the slab like a great cat, and placed the paper and materials in front of himself. Dipping two of his talons into the mixture, he gently pressed the points to the surface and began to write:

Within the dark chambers of our minds there lies Temptations. Temptation is brought upon us in many forms but leads only to one outcome. Obsession. Lustfulness. Greed. The enslavement of the People, I cannot hope to say its exact motivation. The Obsession to dominate all things that dwell under the Sky of Moon and Sun? A Lustful Greed for Lands and Treasures not the possession of the Invaders? Or Praise and Adoration for those that do not deserve it? All that can be said is that in the end such Temptations brought ruin to the Oppressor. Only by forgoing Temptation might we hope to succeed where others have failed as our Ancestors, tempted by their own lust for power, failed to overcome the trials of the Dark Days. Ambition and Direction, channeled properly, can help us to overcome these failings. Ambition creates new things, and Direction uses those things to better the society that the People create in honor of the Spirits that guide us, and the Gods that created us. But therein lies the dangers of such beautiful things. Ambition might lead to Overconfidence, Overconfidence to Desires, and Desires fuel Temptation. It is a true and vicious cycle that should be our goal to overcome and be one as a People. To be as one with the People is the truest blessing, for the love is eternal compared to the fickle and conditional love of Others and Foreign Gods.

Satisfied, he dipped his claws into clean water to rinse off the soot-ink and dried with a clean white cloth that would effectively be a blanket to the Avernai. Rak'kretai picked up the paper and tucked it up to his chest and stood to walk over to a long display where there were several other, similar papers that contained short passages that he had written in his time, and he carefully placed the newest one into an empty spot.

But the Dragon sighed again to himself, looking at the long line of small passages of his wisdom that reinforced the likes of the Hierophant's faith in him.

Rak'kretai turned and approached the center column with a few graceful but rumbling steps and reached up and placed his claws into the holes and pulled himself up and placed his hind claws into them as well and began to climb up and around and through the stone branches at the top of the chamber and out through the opening.

It was only a brief tunnel before it opened up into another chamber that was bright with the light of the sun, and the only sounds were the whispers of the wind and the chatter of the city that was carried along it.

Within an alcove of the mountain that the great Temple Palace of Rak'kretai was built into, was the Emperor's personal lair that looked out over his Empire's capital city of Ezkelon.

The city sprawled out across the verdant valley, rolling hills and stands of trees dotting the landscape. Many stone towers with pyramid tops that rose high but not as tall as to where Rak’kretai rested now, and a multitude of running streams wound through the city down from the volcanic springs higher in the mountains, cascading in waterfalls down the many tiers and out from the valley itself through the Gorge. Along with its many towers were great temples to the absent gods, spirits, and the Four winds, and around the valley rose fortresses that protected the Domain as the valley itself was often called. But of course there were many other things that a city should always possess. Barracks, Armories, and Marshaling Grounds for its Guard, Storehouses, Plazas, Aqueducts and Market Squares

Rak’kretai’s palace was built at one end of the valley and into the mountain scape like a great temple in itself. An impenetrable ziggurat-fortress that rose higher than any other and was guarded night and day by Rak’kretai’s Dragon Guard. They were the Inheritors of the legacy of the first escaped slaves who discovered the egg of their Blessed Savior, and smuggled it back to their people and hid him even after his hatching from the prying eyes of the Opressors that was the Savoset Empire of a hundred years ago. Today they were some of the elite of the Avernai Legions, sworn to uphold their charge, and protect the Emperor and his temple with their very lives, and they do so gladly, clad in silver armor with blue robes and sashes with cloaks made from Rak’kretai’s own feather-like scales and enchanted to protect them. Only the likes of the Sanctified Dead and the Living priesthood could be considered as equally holy as the Dragon Guard where with their storied history and prowess in magics and warfare.

Ezkleon was a small piece of paradise in the mountains, in mythical days a holy city to the old gods, then a hidden refuge city of the ancient avernai that inevitably was discovered, laid to waste, and later forgotten until discovered again, and now over the many long years being rebuilt. And in that time from an empty place with halls of specters it was vibrant with banners, the sounds of the chattering People, hymns, and bells calling to worship and ceremony. With how it all looked, the many tiers of the city, the cascading streams, colors of banners and buildings, and beautiful greenery, it was like the whole of the city was mixed with nature to become a grand garden that had risen from the stone roots of the mountains. As was right for the center of a grand and glorious Empire.

The Emperor slowly walked towards the edge of the alcove where there were several columns that held up the ceiling and large, rich curtains hung, though they were rarely closed. The elements did not bother Rak’kretai as much and they would block the view of the city and the lands beyond that he could see. The barren slopes of the mountains outside the valley and the plains and hills of the west, and then the verdant and rich lands between the great spine of the world and his own Domain in the east. Far away to the north and south were his allies, subjects, and tributaries that amidst the quiet protestations of the Hierophant, Rak’kretai declared to be his loyal Wardens, the chiefest protectors and generals of the Empire, to rule and act as they saw fit in the name of the Emperor. They were outsiders perhaps, but they were Avernai and willing to work with him to establish a powerbase to protect the People. Them believing in him was not a requirement, though respecting was if he in truth was to be the Emperor of all the Avernai Kingdoms, of all the Avernai People in their great and beautiful diversity of form. Though he knew the Wardens little well, he felt that they would prove useful to him as supporters and extensions of his very will.

But that was neither here nor there.

Now on the edge of the alcove, Rak’kretai lowered himself and lounged on the floor to look out over Ezkelon in peace without the noise of politics in his ear, sitting in the darkness of his throne room while supplicants sang his praises. In some capacity, he felt a certain amount of isolation in his position, so many relying upon him and seeking his favor for legitimate reasons or their own schemes. None could fully grasp what he felt to be sure, and for that he felt a certain longing that all the devotees and advisors and entertainers could not possibly hope to fulfill. All he wanted now was to simply rest his head and rest for a few moments before he needed to return to his duties, the sweet smell of flowers mingling with distant volcanic sulphur lulling him to sleep…

Baccar, Chirenai, Onimiski, Ryeongse, and 1 otherEskeland

Founding of Straulechen
Hönberg Castle

The mood was bleak within the normally pleasant halls of the castle; where banter and conversation once filled the halls of Hönberg, now ladies wept quietly and fathers sat in a daze of agony for the loss of sons. Airmanreik had dwelled deeply on his own actions since the start of the crisis, yet every time chose to withdraw himself from the issue, ignore it more likely. His hand uneasily moved to lift a roll of bread from his plate, as his mind lingered on the south. “Has your brother written recently, Katrina?” He asked towards his wife, her mind elsewhere in the clouds, though that was one of the many things Airmanreik found pleasant in his wife, a simpleness not usually found in a court's walls.

She was a handsome woman, if not slightly average, with pulled back brown hair, braided nicely rolling from her right shoulder. She had an ovalish face, with soft brown eyes, but they shined to Airmanreik, even if plain. She sat quietly, minding her manners, as she often did. Katrina had been and was still the most valued thing Airmanreik owned, being both a sister to a Prince, and his truest love, his first love. He had spent much of his youth courting the girl, driving her father into madness, yet in the end the pair finally came as one when Airmanreik inherited his father’s land.

She pleasantly smiled, as she wiped her mouth with a small linen napkin, before placing it down softly, “You know he never writes of the war to me, dearest.” She said with a saddened look, “It hurts my heart far too greatly to dwell on such a horrific conflict, Greatest save them all.” She finished, soon returning to a small book she had recently taken to reading, once again in the clouds, thought Airmanreik, as he sighed to himself.

He bit into his bread, ripping into it like a dog would a fresh kill, though even eating something as plain as bread now unsettled his stomach, a curse of an aging body. Airmanreik sighed, throwing the bread where it had sat all morning, before shifting through letters he’d received. Most were simply unimportant, but some brought news, or at least the latest gossip, which always proved available in times such as these. One caught his eye, an unusual one, his hand stretching out towards his letter opener, quickly exposing the letter’s contents to the light of day.

It was from his cousin, Helene, a daughter of his uncle, upon his mother’s side. He had not seen her in years, yet still remembered her smile fondly, the pair having been raised in the same household before her father became landed in the county of Leunshut. Such a sweet soul, he would need to write to her more often he felt.

We’d lost much since this onslaught, thought Airmanreik, his face a grimace one, as he read a letter from his cousin, wife to the Baron of Börsenau, one of many who had set out against their King in open arms. Her son had died in the recent clash of arms somewhere in the lowlands, though she did not specify where, he sighed, resting the letter upon his knee for the moment. The situation grew more and more dire by each passing day, worsening the land, drowning her in blood, “This was from Helene,” he grunted, grabbing his wife’s attention, as she sipped at a cup of tea, her face plain, but beautiful in it’s own way, thought Airmanreik, as he handed her the letter. “Her youngest, Gerhadt, has passed into the hands of the Greatest.” He sighed with defeat, as his dearest took the letter, her eyes darting across its contents, before she began to weep uncontrollably, as women often do, he thought shortly, exhausted by the whole ordeal.

His mind raced, as images of his young cousin weeping like his beloved did now filled his mind. To lose a son is one thing, but to lose one in such a way. He could hardly imagine the woe it would bring to lose even one of his boys, let alone lose one from something as cruel as war. He held himself in that moment, as he collected his thoughts, he had to be strong, and continue on; dwelling on the pain would help no one.

He stood from his supper table, his appetite lost even more than prior, as he pushed his chair back, “Summon Sir Ekhart and my son.” He ordered, ignoring whether the servants heard or not, as he strode from the room.

Closely followed by his Chaplain, Hildeburt, the old priest slower than his liege, but keeping up just barely. Hildeburt was bald, but once had a soft blondish look from his younger days, with tiny eyes of black. His age took his looks if he had once had any, but he was not here for the pleasantries, or lack thereof, of his looks. He was short and slightly overweight, but priests often were, yet he held himself well, even in old age.

“Why does the Greatest harm us so, chaplain? Who did my cousin harm to deserve such pain, such permanent destruction?” He asked as they made their way through the narrow halls of the castle, the palgrave's eyes darting in slight chaos, as they carefully passed by silent servants and minor courtiers; all who stepped away in fear or wisdom of their furious lord.

The old man cleared his throat, before breathing tiredly, “Your Grace, you must not blame the Greatest for the debauchery of men.” He explained, as he still struggled to keep up. “The Greatest rules from his Throne, while men, mortal men, sully his world.”

Airmanreik scoffed, as he came to a sudden stop, turning his gaze to his chaplain, “If I do not blame the Greatest, who else is there to blame? Would you have me blame the dead? Oh, or I blame the corpse of my cousin; no doubt he deserved a righteous end, yes? Or is it I blame our King, Karlus, a boyish lad who hasn’t even grown proper hair on his chest? Aye, I could blame our King, but Iskren claimed they were divinely chosen by the Greatest, those Kings we all serve, so how can I, in faith, blame a divinely appointed King of Men, protector of our shared peoples, oh dearest chaplain?” He paused, his anger lashing out towards the only outlet before him, as he turned his ashamed gaze away, “Forgive me, Father, but the pain is unbearable, the weight of it unimaginable.” He whispered, as he breathed sharply, “I merely grieve the loss of my cousin's boy.”

And a boy he had been, thought Airmanreik, only seventeen, why had they let him fight. He knew why, he himself had fought in the vanguard of the good King Heinrik vanguard when he had merely been sixteen, but times were different, an age and a half ago it seemed, compared to the state of the realm now. This war was not like anything he had fought in during his youth, yet rang every bell of familiarity in war; treachery, debauchery, pointlessness of it all, yet here they all were. Some chose to fight, yet others chose to sit idle, while others prepared to feast on the fat corpses of their kinsmen. Airmanriek had not decided where he stood, but each ticking moment drew him further to a conclusion, a final decision.

Hildeburt remained in silence, his aged wrinkles unmoving as he reached out for his lord, “The Greatest will guide us through these times, Your Grace.” He whispered, before gesturing towards the end of the hall before us, “Come, let us see young Leudbold and good Sir Ekhart, they deserve to hear of their family’s loss.” He said, helping Airmanreik forward, as he stumbled slowly down the hall, his mind racing, unsure of how to continue; the days ahead seemed darker than any he had seen, but if this was the Greatest’s test for his creation, he would not ignore it.

As they walked through the halls, Airmanreik could not help but continue to think of the war, the lives lost, the men taken. He wondered if he had lost more relations since the war’s start, only no one survived to inform him of their departure from this reality. How many more sons would be taken, and for what ends would their lives create? Who gained anything from this, other than destroyed lands and broken men without the spirit to fight. This war was more debilitating than those of the past, and so why fight it? Was it merely the ambitions of men that this war waged, or was there more to it.

Airmanreik and Hildeburt came upon the chamber where Sir Ekhart and Leudbold had been summoned, but Airmanreik paused outside its entry. “Greatest show me guidance.” He whispered, as he entered.

Leudbold stood uneasy, his pacing uncontrollable as the pair of older men reached the small room, “Father, are you well?” Leudbold asked with the spirit a man of his age always had, as he stepped forward to help his father towards his accustomed small. “When you summoned, I feared-”

“I have not fallen ill, boy, merely news from the south.” Airmanreik dismissively said to his son, as he took his seat, groaning softly as he turned to Sir Ekhart, his brother, upon his mother’s second marriage.

He had a tall build, with lanky arms that ill suited his general poritions, but made him an excellent fighter, rivaling many of the largest men upon a field of battle. His nose was short and flat, but not hideous, nor attractive, yet his eyes allowed him to pass for some regards of handsome, having inherited our mother’s green eyes; something Airmanreik could not say the same.

Leudbold was a man, or boy to most, of twenty, with a standard but smaller build, due to childhood illnesses, that made him infirm as a youth. Though he’d grown past his years of illness, it set him behind many of his peers; Airmanreik approved the bookish nature it produced in the boy, finding it acceptable if it allowed him to thrive in skills of a learning nature. His face had the beginnings of hazal facial hairs taking root, but not so much that he had the look of a man; his soft brown eyes of his mother did no favors to his boyish looks, but in time he would look like a man. His hair was a deep brown, and longer than what was, in Airmanreik’s opinion, acceptable, yet let it stand, as the boy had insisted it was a court style within the Hallish lowlands.

Airmanreik poured himself an ale, the room silent as they awaited the man’s words, “Your cousin, Gerhadt has died.” He mumbled, as he took a sip of his ale, it’s contents already stirring his stomach, yet he needed to have a drink nonetheless.

Leudbold slammed his fist across the table before the party of four men, “Damn them father, let the Greatest take them now, damnable Syrd dogs!” He bellowed out, as he knocked his own drink aside onto the floor. His anger did little to impress upon his father, who sat in silent disgust at his son’s embarrassing outrage. “How can those mongrels get away with this! How can we sit here, drinking our ale, and not do something about it?” He yelled, as children often do.

Airmanreik ignored his son and turned his attention to his brother, who sat quietly, his green eyes held a fire within them, one his brother recognized from their youth, “Speak your mind brother.” He demanded, as he took another sip, his stomach clenching as it prepared.

“I’m sorry for your loss, but the Greatest has him now, and as such we must not be clouded in grief, or guilt at our inaction.” He began, as he stood, “The League is a temporary creature, it always would face destruction, either by the hands of the Syrd, or by a Hallish man’s doing, this we knew, but that does not mean the Hallish lay defeated. We still hold absolute dominion here, and many other Counts, even Dukes, look towards Straulechen guidance on the war in the low country. If we were to pick a side, we could reshape Halland, even the Syrdish lands we once called our own.” He paused, as returned to his seat, “But we must not play a bad hand, brother, nor should we support this League in earnest. If we do, it could ruin us, perhaps even destroy all of Halland, north and south.”

Airmanreik dwelled on his brothers words, though that agreed with them, both men sharing a similar mind on matters of state, both sharing their mothers shrewdness towards conflict, “I agree brother, but a response should be made, no?” He asked, as he placed his ale down upon the table, “Our cousin’s son lay upon a field of broken steel, and I do nothing?”

“Not nothing, brother.” Ekhart said, as he leaned forward, “We must wait and see; possibly the war will come to a close soon, we do not know. All we know is our kinsmen died in a field in the lowlands, fighting for his liege lord, an admirable end, for a gallant knight, I would say.”

Airmanreik scoffed at his last bit of words, yet nodded, as he turned back to his son, “Ride out with a small retinue. Summon my vassals, all of them, if they are able. I intend to have a diet on the matter, or at the very least draw a census from those of my nobility.” He demanded, his son's face angered at the mere suggestion of having to be an errand boy to his father.

“Father, let me take two hundred riders; let me ride west and let us loose upon open Syrdish countryside, for my cousin's honor! I demand retribution on the Syrd mutts!” He demanded, slamming his fist to the table, this time spilling Airmanreik ale.

Airmanreik stood abruptly, backhanding the child, before returning to his seat, his face one of utter disgust, as he held his own hand, as it began to throb, “You stupid boy, your brash nature does you no charm, nor will it win you honors in the days to come. Do your duties, serve your father, and be gone with you. I will not see you again till the diet, or you will meet the back of my hand once more, I swear this on your Syrdish grandmothers ashes!” He yelled, his son still railing in disbelief, as he barely held onto the table.

“Y- yes, father. I will be off.” He said, turning to his uncle, “I will see you soon I hope, Uncle.” He finished, before departing in haste, his fear taking control of him, as Airmanreik sat in silence, saddened by his actions. He tried to temper his anger, as all men should do, but he struggled in sitting idle while his son would endlessly sow seeds of unrest in his very castle; he would not have it, even if it meant silencing his son with the back of his hand.

Airmanreik peered at his crimson red hand, as he still held it with the other. He stretched his fingers, his breath uneasy, as he thought of his son. The boy did not even know his cousin, yet he spoke with such vigor you’d believe they were brothers in arms. Airmanreik wished he could show gratitude for his son’s spirit, but perhaps it was that same spirit that took his dearest cousin’s son in that field.

“Am I too hard on the boy?” He asked, hoping his younger brother would give him an insight, “I’d hoped he’d become less restless with age, but each day I feel he becomes more and more reckless, even dangerous to himself.” Airmanreik said, mainly to himself, mainly to my rule, thought the count, as the thought stirred more unpleasantries in his decaying stomach.

A recklessness he found within himself at that age, perhaps one that many young men often felt when they had become men. He remembered his days as a youth, hot headed, stubborn as a mule; the words of his father still rang in his head, words of warning on brash nature. He had not heeded his words then, only so in his aging state did he understand patience. A youth had years to do, to see, to face the world, yet as they aged, time became less plentiful.

His brother had forgone that period of life, even ignoring that aura of youth that Airmanreik had ventured through. He had always been level headed, shrewd, yet not sheltered behind a mask of pleasantries, those who committed to intrigues often did. He was many things his brother could not be, but also less. He was capable, possibly more than his brother, yet held back by the nature of his birth, a birth of questionable origins, he could not escape.

“The boy was like you, brother.” He said after a moment’s silence, as his eyes met Airmanreik, those green eyes, like jewels, only fiery, they held a flame which burnt in men who were dealt bad hands. “Aye, he is brash now, but brashness is often needed when ruling, no?”

“Nothing like me.” Airmanreik said quickly, his anger once more showing, as he placed his wounded hand, his pride, upon his lap. “The boy must learn his place in this world, this realm. I will not abide by such-,” his words began to catch with him, as his eyes darted to his brother, his arm crossed, as they shared looks with the other.

“The boy takes after you, do not take offense to that, brother, I mean nothing of it, but observation.” He said, as he smiled with a smirk, his yellow teeth showing, as he chuckled, before his face became a more grim one. “How is our cousin in truth? Her other boys alright?” He asked, as he went for a gulp of ale, “You know I helped teach their youngest how to hold a sword, seems, well it seems I did not teach him all I should have.” He mumbled, as he took another sip, the fire of his eyes fading.

Airmanreik sighed, remembering how the boy had run around these halls almost like it was yesterday, or so it seemed. He’d ride out with his father, while his mother would sit and watch, the smile, the pride in her heart, evident then and there. Airmanreik dared not dwell on his cousin, her pain, oh the pain of her husband, losing two sons in one lifetime, both to unnatural means, horrid.

Airmanreik shook himself from the boy, “It's not your fault, Ekhart.” He said, as he gestured for the man to drink more ale, “He fought for his country, aye, his father, like a good son should. Greatest willing, we all die so nobally.” He said, as he tried to dismiss his brother’s guilt.

His brother nodded slowly, but purposefully, as he began to tap the table, “Aye, yes.” Is all he said in return, as he returned to his old self, his gloomy smile, turning to calmness, like a lake. “But what will we do about this war that’s plaguing us, taking our children, Airmanreik.”

“I do not know.”

“Don’t treat me like another of your boy’s, I know you wouldn’t summon a diet without already determining your moves.” He said, leaning back slightly, “Hildeburt, withdraw yourself, let me and my brother discuss this in private.” He added, waving the priest away.

Airmanreik held his hand in objection, his head shaking, as his other hand moved to his stomach. The pain continued, but he gestured for the chaplain to take a seat with the pair, “Hildeburt stays, I heed his council in private, so it does us no true purpose of dismissing him from this discussion now.” He said, almost in a whimper of sorts, as he calmed himself from the pain.

Hildeburt took a seat beside Airmanreik, and across from Ekhart. He moved slowly, a factor of his age, yet moved with purpose when in examination. He played the part of old man well, but failed in executing it in its entirety; his eyes giving him away. They were small orbs of almost black colors, that moved across a room carefully, examining his surroundings, never putting himself in harm’s way. His eyes were partly why Airmanreik kept him at side, but, also due to the chaplain’s natural medicines he’d produce to ease his lord’s pains. He was both a boon to him in court, while also soothing his old bones from the aches that kept him from restfulness.

Ekhart agreed after the priest had sat, nodding, before continuing, “As I said prior, before your son, we should take up arms, or at the very least raise our levy to prepare ourselves for possible incursion.”

Hildeburt scoffed, as he often does with Ekhart, the two quiet rivals for their liege’s ear. “Raising an army would be no better than throwing our flag in with the rebels.”

“Rebels? They’re fighting for their promised rights, written by our forefathers, and those Syrds, who you seemingly worship, priest.” He barked, his fire returning, as he turned, his disgust in the priest as evident as ever, “I understand not letting the boy ride rampant in the countryside, but at least raise our levy, Your Grace. What if that King of theirs roams into our lands, burns our farms, now that would become our problem, no?”

“Aye it would, but that King, our King brother, won’t do such a thing while I draw breath.” Airmanreik barked in return, as he took a sip of more ale, ignoring the pain it stirred in his inside’s. “I have been nothing but loyal to His Highness, he, no, they all know this. His Highness has faults, yes, but I will not mock his rule like those other men of lesser moral standing, nor will I drive my country into pointless war.”

“Then what action, Your Grace, will this diet take for the betterment of this country?” Ekhart asked, as he pushed aside his ale, his fingers now tapping with haste, “We supported the Syrds time and time again, but what gains have we made in the last, what three decades? Or when was the last time a Syrdish King even graced these halls with their divine bodies?”

“You mock the Greatest?” Hildeburt mumbled in disbelief, as he gestured towards the sky, “We are all brothers under the gaze of his throne, are we not? Are we not, Ekhart?!”

“The Greatest, all powerful, maker and creator.” He responded, chuckling as he continued, “I spit on his throne, and you, for being so daft and scared under his gaze.” He said, venom running from his lips, as he continued, “I do not recognize any King in Syrduria, nor should you, brother.” He said, standing, “I ask for dismissal.”

Airmanreik merely nodded, as he sat in silence.

Haldeburt scoffed at Ekhart, as the man strode from the room towards the unknown, “Damnable fool, wishes to bring all of Syrduria and Hallad into war, and for what? Greatest show mercy on that creation, but he sickens me, Your Grace. Nothing but a plague within these beautiful walls of yours, a shadow in your corners.”

“Enough, Haldeburt, I will hear no more of my brother from your lips.” Airmanreik commanded, as he once more tried to think on matters, any matter. He in truth held onto the hope of peace in the kingdom that he called home, but like his brother said, time and time again, the Syrds knew of no peace he'd seen. And even more, when was the last time a Syrdish King came here, if ever; were we so irrelevant to them that we sit ignored, even now, even in war, when they should be courting our favor, our troops, our loyalty for what comes after.

No letter, no messages, nothing came from Syrduria other than declarations of treachery, or the stripping of names from their history. The Hallish had been loyal for years and years, serving those King’s in Wyren’s Rest since their coming into the throne, yet where were we now that we hadn’t been decades before them. Who among the Hallish did not help their cousins in the western country, yet who among the Hallish was rewarded for their loyalty, their steadfast nature.

Airmanreik dwelled no more, as he turned to Hildeburt, “Fetch me something to write with, now. Send word to my son there will be no diet, and tell my brother to summon my banners, we are marching south.”

“Your Grace?” The priest whispered, dumb founded, “You march to war?”

Airmanreik scoffed, as he held onto his stomach, “I march to end this war.”

Kul akeris, Chirenai, Namalar, Syrduria, and 3 othersRyeongse, Eskeland, and Nesketos

Mazaruk

The Citadel of the Moon

The southeastern reach of Lake Mazur was dominated by a crumbling tower of ivory-white that rose far over all its other surroundings. This was the greatest accomplishment of this jewel in the crown of Mazaruk, the third great dwarf-city along the shores of Lake Mazur. A stunned silence fell over Heikur Redbeard and his party, the greatest warriors of Clan Goldfeather. They had travelled for several days, passing easily through the silent hills and vales between Mazaruk and this site, but the party halted at the view of the marble citadel that stood before them.

The stench of death filled the air, even a distance from the tower.

"The Tower of Moonlight is shrouded in darkness, as of late," Heikur murmured, to the quiet assent of his comrades. "We must press on, for the good of Mazaruk. The stench means fresh bodies - there may still be some living beings within the Citadel." As these heavy words hung in the air, the dwarves steeled themselves and proceeded towards Baruk-Izgil, the Citadel of the Moon.

"Blades out," came the voice of hardy Grimnuk Stonefoot, whose greataxe was already in his hands as the dwarves passed beneath the ruined, half-closed portcullis that once denied entry to those who would see the dwarves' sanctuary ruined. The sound of a half-dozen blades being drawn filled the air as the sights of the tower’s entrance came into view.

The story almost told itself. Bodies were strewn all along the path through the tower, grim markers of an intense struggle. Dwarves were hewn with an apparent cruelty that shocked the party, particularly given the fact that approximately half of them appeared to be unarmed. Dwarves killing dwarves. It was unheard of in Mazaruk, and it was known to be equally unheard of in Baruk-Izgil.

“No fear.”

One of the Mazaruki was pulled to the ground as he spoke, the iron grip of an apparently-dead dwarf seizing upon his foot and attempting to pull away the high boot that prevented it from drawing blood, to little avail. In a second, the spear of Grimnuk Stonefoot thrust through the dwarf’s eye, and the body was still once more. The toppled warrior stood once more, breathing heavily as the grip released. “Cold breath,” he gasped, “cold from his mouth, but no breathing. What the flaming hell was that?”

“Breathe, Borekk,” came the voice of Heikur Redbeard, “and quiet your voice. Whatever is going on here, it must have heard your voice.” He prodded at the corpse with his longsword, turning the body so that it faced upwards. Apart from the blow dealt to the dwarf by Grimnuk, the body was still almost unrecognisable. Skin and bone had been rent asunder by what appeared to be axe blows, and the body was far too cold to have been alive to attack one of the living dwarves.

“He was dead when he grabbed you, Borekk,” Grimnuk concluded. “Had to have been.”

“Dead? I didn’t.. I… we-” cried Sirti Blackclaw, who was immediately wheeled upon and forced into silence by the others, though the gesture was too little, too late. The half of the dwarf corpses that lay along the path that led into the city proper that bore the worst damage began to slowly heave themselves up from the ground. The creaking of bones and the shambling of the dead marked the beginning of a deathly trial.

Shambling.

Shambling.

Shambling.

Heikur sung a battle-hymn, as was the tradition of the Mazaruki on the eve of a battle, as the group grew close together and faced the looming threat to their lives. The other dwarves joined in the singing, warm voices cutting through the cold, overpowering sense of foreboding that surrounded them. The dead appeared to have fully awakened, now, and there seemed to be no sense in permitting an oppressive silence to fall over them.

"Izgil ar-tharak tar-marsu,
izgil mal-marak erk-kurosu,
imor-tara ar-izgil, mor-tyras.
An-mar: ar-tarukas!"

"Moonlight’s tower enduring,
moonlight profaned by the unnatural,
the dead are marked by moonlight.
A message: We must clear the way!"

The profane march was seemingly unstoppable. These creatures, these souls - whatever they were to hold dominion over the bodies of dwarves who deserved much more - smelled blood on the air. They moved slowly and deliberately, but struck with an incredible fury once they were within distance to throw themselves at the warriors. The distinct crackling of concentrated flame filled the room as the Redbeard swung his sword with one hand, sending forward a blast of fire that caused some of the harbingers of the horde to scatter. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, the dwarf began to hack away at the closest targets as he felt his energy returning to him. There was no telling exactly how long this ordeal would last, and there was only one mage between them.

A yelp. A crack of lightning struck the body that had managed to knock off Grimnuk Stonefoot’s steel helm, the heavy piece of armour striking the ground with a thud that would have alerted him even without the vocal cue. For a moment, a barrier shimmered between the pair, and with a gruff nod of gratitude from Grimnuk, the magical wall faded away. The spear of the Stonefoot thrust forward with such a force that it knocked the assailant to the ground, the enraged dwarf taking the time to stab the corpse a handful of extra times for good measure.

“Respect the bodies, Grimnuk,” Heikur called out as he himself cleaved away a leg, muttering a few words of prayer for the dwarven soul that once occupied the body. “No undue strikes!”

“I’ll take a razor to you, Redbeard, and you’ll be Heikur Redcheeks!” The pair laughed at that, with the axe of Borekk Ironbrow knocking down a zombie who was attempting to sneak up on Heikur. “You watch your back, now, Heikur,” Grimnuk added with a shake of his fist, gesturing towards Borekk. Despite his playful rebuttal, Grimnuk’s fury abated somewhat as the group fell into a rhythm, and after what felt like an hour or more of hacking, slashing and blasting at the undead, the swarm seemed to be at rest.

“Are we all accounted for?”

“Borekk!”

“Aye!”

“Grimnuk!”

“Aye.”

“Thyrri!”

“Mm-hm.”

“Sirti!”

“Yes’m.”

“Irthun!”

Silence.

They looked around, and to the group’s horror, they saw the gasping body of Irthun Firestoker laying almost-still against the white-stone staircase that led into the lower levels of Barak-Izgil. He was nursing a grisly gash in his throat, grasping desperately at it in a vain attempt to staunch his bleeding. His face had been fiercely clawed, and by the way his arm was nursing his chest, there had been some severe trauma to his torso.

“I am no healer,” Heikki murmured, “but I must try.”

He felt the broken ribs, the in-and-out pumping of blood through the heart, felt the dwindling light in the dwarf’s eyes. “Breathe, now, Irthun,” he whispered, hands moving with as much grace as he could muster. The energy was draining from him, but he could feel the slow, steady improvements in Irthun’s condition.

“Bandages. Now.”

He took the length of cloth and wrapped it around the throat wound, fixing it in place. “Nothing for the face, unless we’re to keep him blind,” Heikur noted. “Back to it.” He raised his hands once more, slowly gliding them along the outline of the wounds, making delicate movements with his hands.

With a start, Grimnuk Stonefoot let out a shout of surprise as a body next to Irthun, already seemingly silenced by the dwarves, began to stir once more. He leapt forward and separated its head from its body, but the disturbance had done its damage. His concentration broken, Heikki swore under his breath as Irthun let out an anguished cry, a great deal of Heikki’s work undone. The bandages were stained a deep crimson, and the dwarf’s eyes grew glassy.

“More, Heikki, there’s more. They’re moving again. They’re moving, Heikki, you hear me? DO YOU HEAR ME? BEHIND YOU! BEHIND YOU!”

Heikki Redbeard pounded his fist against the bloodstained floor as Irthun Firestoker joined his ancestors, his laboured breaths coming to an end. With a wroth unseen in the dwarf in a decade or more, a great sphere of fire formed between his hands. It was launched forward as he stood once more, the intensity of his rage and energy causing it to reduce a handful of the undead to ash. The very tower shuddered from the impact, the entrance portcullis falling to block the citadel’s exit.

“Sirti. Take the body. We must go deeper.”

“Deeper, Heikki?”

“We can’t bloody well stay here, and it looks like I’ve just trapped us here. Curse me for it later - MOVE!”

The path that led into the lower city of Barak-Izgil was slick with blood. The marble staircase was flecked with crimson, and the pooling of the undead’s blood caused undue difficulty throughout the entirety of their descent. All the while, Sirti Blackclaw struggled with the still-armoured body of Irthun. In the middle of a brief altercation with a pack of undead who were slowly ascending the staircase - no doubt to join in the ongoing hunt for the living dwarves - seized upon the beleaguered dwarf, pushing past his armed protectors in an attempt to kill the weakest of the lot in a surprisingly-calculating move. The shock caused Sirti to fall backwards and lose his grip on the body, which was sent tumbling down the side of the staircase, through a gap in the railing to the depths below. The living dwarf himself followed soon after as one of the zombies they had previously slain above, descending the stairs in pursuit, snuck up on Sirti. With a fierce struggle, the dwarf’s efforts sent both him and his assailant tumbling down the steps, settling directly in the centre of the approaching pack from below.

Despite his swings and defiant shouts, a downed dwarf was of little use against the teeming horde. Irthun and the guardian of his body were now lost to Mazaruk.

“Borekk! Thyrri! Grimnuk! With me!” Again, Heikki whispered a prayer for his fallen comrades as the remaining four dwarves charged forward, heedless of the poor footing, using a combination of Heikki’s bursts of fire and the sheer ferocity of their charge to cleave a path through the pack. By some miracle, they had managed to keep their balance - and pass through the undead, though they had turned to continue the onslaught. The dwarves continued downwards, humming sorrowful tunes as they completed their descent into the lower city.

The city of Barak-Izgil was a blighted corpse whose beauty still, by some miracle, shone through. As the four passed into the cavern that constituted the city proper, they saw what gave the city its name: a small opening had been made, whether by nature or by the hands of ancient dwarven earth-workers, whose craft was now the stuff of legend, which revealed the pale light of the moon to those who inhabited the city. Each of the four made the moon-sign, a salutation to the light as they felt its glow - and the connection to their ancestors, whose worship mandated the presence of the moon overhead - empower them.

The fountains were stagnant, the aqueducts filled with silt and mud. Homes and statues had been brought down by some cataclysmic force, ancient battlements were shattered and the streets were strewn with broken blades and signs of resistance.

“Dark tidings,” came the quiet voice of Thyrri Birchturner, the woodcrafter turned swordsman. “What will we do? There is but one way to the surface, so it seems, and every step draws us only further from it.”

“We will search for another,” Heikki declared, “and should we fail, we will make a great racket in the lower city. Something to draw the bodies away, until there is enough distance between them and ourselves to get time to work on getting through the shut gate.” It was as good a plan as any, which is to say that it seemed as though it would work on paper. “We ought to move. It seems the undead from the city’s entrance have already met us above, but there are likely more about; even if there are none, we will soon smell the ones we do know once more.”

“Aye,” nodded Grimnuk, wiping sweat from his dust-covered beard. “We’d best learn
something, too. Records. Circumstances. The Council will want to know why this place ought to be left alone, why it is a tomb for the walking.”

“I did not have you figured for a poet, Stonefoot,” remarked Borekk. “A tomb for the walking. There’s a line for the elegy we’ll need to compose once this is all said and done.”

“We’ll need to survive, first,” Grimnuk replied, though he chuckled a bit at Borekk’s statement. “It’s time to move.” The Mazaruki set off once more, navigating their way through the winding streets and corners of Barak-Izgil. They rooted through abandoned shops and smithies for records, but found nothing save for overturned tables and ashen-cold hearths. They encountered no sign of the undead save for long-burnt pyres, likely constructed by the dwarves of the city in order to dispose of their dead respectfully. Such was the determination of the dwarves to respect their traditions: even as the world shook and all they knew collapsed around them, the rites had to be respected. There was almost a comfort in it.

“Hold,” came Heikki’s voice. “A hall of records,” he noted, gesturing towards the still-legible etchings carved into the side of a sloped building carved from the pale-grey quartzite that constituted the cavern. Indeed, they marked the presence of a place of learning. The party pressed inside, spreading out to thumb through every account, every hastily-written note left in the edifice. It was always the way of the dwarves to leave records, even in desperate times; they were the only way to ensure that a story endured in its entirety, and they considered bitter endings to be just as important to remember as days of glory and splendour. It was, as a result, becoming immediately clear what had happened to Barak-Izgil.

“They came through the moonlight’s door, hurling themselves into the city below. Their blood filled the wells, ruined the water, their bodies crushed the mushroom-crops. We died of hunger, of thirst, of tooth and nail. A messenger was sent to Mazaruk. We have heard nothing. The Black Fault’s reach is far. Tyrnan wrote this.”

“The depths are unsafe. More dead than can be counted. They chase the miners. They hunt like we do - slow, but unstoppable. They are a tide that cannot be stopped. Only these words will endure. Syr wrote this.”

“My name is Tinrek. I have seen ten winters, and I will be a great mage! I will write another message when I learn my first spell, one that will free us all.”

“Nary a whisker on the lad’s face,” murmured Thyrri. “Stuff your packs with as many of these sheets and notebooks as you can carry. If you see a tale you do not recognize, take it too. For Mazaruk.”

A rhythmic pounding struck the oaken door that had been closed behind the group. They stared at each other for a moment, before drawing their blades. The pounding grew louder, and a quick glimpse out a window revealed the presence of enough undead to fill the entirety of the building more than twice over - where had they come from?

“We are going to die,” Thyrri observed.

“There’s a window, up high,” noted Grimnuk. “If one of us sheds his armour and climbs atop another…”

“Heikki first,” suggested Borekk. “You get out, we’ll toss you your pack. Run.” The group seemed to concur, though Heikki tried several times to refuse the offer. “There is no time for your sense of honour, Redbeard,” Borekk noted, to a surprisingly-cheery guffaw from Grimnuk. Acquiescing, Heikki began to remove his armor.

“On my shoulders, Redcheeks,” demanded Grimnuk as the deed was done. “First you, then the pack. Run as fast as your little legs can carry you, eh? Have a tankard for us when you’re back home if this door doesn’t hold up long enough.”

With a heave and a push, Heikki Redbeard was hoisted through the hole that once contained a glass window. With a grunt, Grimnuk Stonefoot ensured that Heikki’s pack came next just as the door gave way. The sound of splintering wood and the clang of metal filled the air as Heikki sprinted away, making his way back toward the city’s entrance. With a gasp, he saw the slowly-moving train of undead making their way towards the library. They had not, it seemed, noticed the escaped dwarf. Taking full advantage of this moment, Heikki launched himself at the exit, running up the stairs so quickly that he could feel his breath leaving him. Refusing to stop for even a moment, the dwarf eventually made his way up the staircase and towards the entranceway.

The ruined portcullis, brought down by Heikki’s magical attacks at the mission’s outset, was still strong enough to withstand a powerful strike - a strike that would likely draw attention back to him. There was one option.

Heikki Redbeard felt the rage within him, the fury and sense of overwhelming loss that had dominated this mission. He felt the desire to live, to see Mazaruk once more, to warn its people of the dangers that lurked so nearby, to tell them that the Black Fault was no myth, that they would all meet the fate of Barak-Izgil if they did not seize the time they had to prepare. The flames built up once more, and they did not stop growing. A mighty bolt of fire issued forth from his strong hands that blasted away the weakest section of the iron grate, leaving a gap large enough for his escape. It was a hollow triumph, but Mazaruk would have at least one of her champions once more.

The free air tasted bitter.

Elvhenen, Dhorvas, Chirenai, Riddenheim, and 3 othersRyeongse, Eskeland, and Nesketos

Nesketos

The Attack of the Treacherous

A silence fell across the leaders of the armies. Each Ikori went his own way, back to where the lines of soldiers stood, awaiting commands. The mist of the morning made way for a cloudy day, as the sky threatened rain. 300 Nesi Natuisas comprised the elite forces of the Puedes He-aligned army, alongside a great host of vhepasi. Jaukusu gazed back to his own army. He knew they were encouraged from many victories, but the idea of attacking their own, including elite troops, wouldn’t have sat well with many of them, he knew. He even wondered if some would desert if given half the chance. Fighting one’s own countrymen could never come easily. As if detecting many of Jaukusu’s apprehensions, Eutropios caught up to the general and spoke quietly to him.

“Don’t worry, my men will not desert easily.”

Jaukusu nodded back to the King, before saying his own piece to him; “You needn’t have put yourself in harm’s way by joining me. I appreciate it truly, but if we lose…”

“I know where I stand with you, for the most part;” Eutropios responded, nodding in return to the general, “If I abandon you now, that is a stain on my honour. In any case, we shall not lose. I trust my men, you should trust yours.”

“I sincerely hope you’re right…” Jaukusu spoke quietly as they approached the army. Jaukusu’s two lieutenants approached the returning commanders.

“No luck on negotiation then?” Lamanuisu asked, a smirk playing across his features.

Jaukusu shook his head in response; “There never was a chance of that. Not now, at least. I never thought the Puedes He would oppose us so strongly.”

“Any idea why they’re coming at us with such force?” Pazu asked, taking off his helmet to better speak to the general.

Jaukusu sighed heavily; “They say that there’s been a prophecy that condemns my actions here. I’m not sure I believe them and I’m not sure if I care, but I know that we face 300 Nesi Natuisas in pitched battle. We have less than a third of that. They have the upper hand on these plains.”

Lamanuisu looked to the sky; “They’ll probably attack soon, then. None of us want to fight in the rain - it looks as if it will be heavy.”

Jaukusu knew what he was to do. He approached the front of his army, and began to speak, his voice carrying well, just as it had at the beginning of his campaign. His army was short of some men who had embarked on the campaign with him, and had taken in some others who had not been there at the beginning. But he was proud of how far they’d come.

“Ikori of Nesketos, Heleni and Karku. I once talked to you of glory, of victory, of doing as we Nesketans are born to; taking what is ours. We have Ikori with us who now can call themselves Nesketan, and they share our spirit. Take heart; your brothers’ nerves are steeled by your presence. We have roamed lands once foreign to us, razed lands that opposed us, and conquered territories far beyond our original ambitions. Take heart; your country’s hopes are emboldened by your victory. You have proven time and time again that you are not afraid, that we are greater than the horrors of war, that Nesketans may seize the day and achieve victory. Take heart; this is only a familiar enemy wearing a new face. This may well be the hardest battle we have yet fought. Take heart, I say, take heart! The glory of victory for the victor! The returning conquerors triumphant!”

The army cheered as Jaukusu concluded his speech. Ikori battered their shields with their weapons, the Nesi Natuisas hit their shields to the ground, and all of them shouted. Some shouted for glory, others for victory, some merely for Nesketos. Jaukusu turned to his lieutenants amidst the shouting.

“We don’t have enough elites to flank them. Elites to the centre, rangers behind, levies to the side. Nessus be with us.”

The two lieutenants dismounted their horses and took their swords from their scabbards. They raised them out to the front in a salute; “Nessus be with us.”

Eutropios nodded, dismounting his own horse; “Aye. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

The commanders to their places, they moved forward slowly in line for battle. Their counterparts too moved forward at a marching pace, their Nesi Natuisas on the outside. The call of the Carnyx carried by the opposing Nesi Natuisas seemed to shake the air around the battlefield. The threatened rain began to fall. Jaukusu thought one final thought to himself before dedicating himself to battle.

Death or glory.

--------------------------------------------------

A line of soldiers snaked its way along the roads entering the city of Nesketos. Men and women in the streets stopped what they were doing to watch them. At the head of the long line were the two remaining generals Puedes He generals. They had not needed the 100 remaining Nesi Natuisas, who now waited in their barracks further from the city, instead just taking 600 vhepasi, who marched solemnly up the hill towards the Thiton chamber. Some peasants arrayed themselves behind, mostly in curiosity as to what was going on. Zatu nodded to Castasu, and the latter kicked the flanks of his horse and turned back to the end of the line.

“Move on all you who would hinder us!” he declared, brandishing his sword, “We do this for Nesketos, and will accept no hindrance! All who love freedom, allow us passage, but do not interfere!”

The meaning was quite clear, the circling general on horseback brandishing his blade making the point well enough if the words had not. The peasants gradually dispersed, some returning to the side streets, others going to barricade themselves inside any building they could find. Castasu continued his declaration behind as Zatu ascended the hill. The army’s pace did not falter, and the chambers came into sight.

The chamber guardsmen at the door noticed the army. They knew whatever they were doing there was not for their good. One chamber guardsman ran off towards a bell on the other side of the forecourt.

Vhepasi, tse akec!

The vhepas troops spread out in a fan, though appeared somewhat disorganised in doing so. Castasu looked back to Zatu, who pointed to the running Ikori. Castasu kicked the flanks of his horse, letting out an exclamation as he did so. The Ikori reached the bell, and began to ring it, but soon after was cut down by Castasu on horseback. The chamber guardsmen got the message.

Guardsmen ran towards the door to the Thiton chamber, and noticed the approaching line of vhepasi, arrayed in an inward-facing fan. Some of the guards managed to reach the door and stood in front of it. Others had come out too late, and were placed outside of the fan. Some of these began to attack the rear of the vhepas line.

“Right flank, with me!”

The right flank, around 100 Ikori, broke off from the attack, and circled around to meet Castasu. He dismounted and marched with them to where the guardsmen were attacking the much weaker vhepasi of the left flank. Pushing forward with them, Castasu’s force managed to peel off the chamber guard counterattack from the rear of the vhepas line. At most, there would have been thirty guardsmen counterattacking from outside the line. At most, sixteen inside the circle. Castasu’s force continued to battle the guardsmen.

Vhepasi, taxu ligimes!

The vhepasi lowered their spears and moved towards the door one step at a time. The guardsmen lowered their own spears silently, standing against the door. The door opened inward slightly, and the head of an aristocrat peered out.

“Stay inside!” one of the chamber guardsmen instructed the aristocrat, who quickly shut the door again. The circle moved inward and thickened, the spears bristling against the guardsmen. Finally, a vhepas soldier thrust his spear. Blood spilled out from the guardsman it hit and he fell to the floor. The attack began.

More and more vhepasi stabbed at the guardsmen. Some were hit immediately, while others managed to parry the spears, and others struck back at the attacking troops. Unlike the vhepasi, outfitted with small shields, the guardsmen had no spears, but had thicker armour. The thickness of their armour wouldn’t help stop all of the spears stabbing at them. Mere minutes of attack, the guardsmen on the inside all lay on the ground, bodies of dead and wounded Ikori.

The battle on the outside was far more evenly matched. The guardsmen came up against the inferior vhepasi in much more even numbers. That was until Zatu ordered one half of the remaining vhepasi to join their compatriots against the guardsmen.

--------------------------------------------------

THUD!

Inside the Thiton chamber, the fire roared in the centre stone table. The Archon remained outwardly calm amidst the shouts of frightened aristocrats. Two last remaining guardsmen stood inside. The battle outside was audible, easily so. The guards who now lay on the forecourt, their dying gasps and cries filling the minds of those inside with dread.

THUD!

The door was barricaded, though it was clear it would not last forever. The soldiers outside would get in, and the battle would have all been in vain. The Thiton had been given no warning other than the bell rung from outside. Though it was clear that a Karkuvian-speaker led them.

THUD!

The door appeared to buckle more under each swing of their battering pole, the wood splintering slightly and the stone almost seeming to shudder itself. What efficacy it had as a weapon, a tool to get in, it also had as a demoralising agent, for the thuds itself became fearsome to the ever more fearful aristocrats.

THUD!

One aristocrat, this one from the house ne Meaga, turned to the Archon and spoke up, as if to the other members of the Thiton more than the Archon himself.

“Is this what your rashness has wrought? Is this what your disobedience brings us?”

THUD!

“Do you deny that this is all your fault Zematu?”

The Archon looked back to the aristocrat and exhaled a brief laugh. Even in this time of treachery against the whole Thiton, ne Meaga had found a way to turn it into something political, some slight against them. Another member of the Thiton whispered something to the aristocrat that shut him up. The Archon smirked.

THUD!

It was not that the Archon was not scared. In fact, this was the closest to fear that he had come in a number of years. But the mark of a great leader was to stand firm under pressure. The aristocrats would think more of an unbending Archon than of one who bent and broke.

SMASH!

A ray of light shone in from the outside. The two guardsmen inside lowered their spears to defend. Silence.

The sound of a pair of boots hitting the stone outside in a slow, thoughtful manner could be heard. The light was blocked. A voice came through the hole in the door.

“Open the doors now. Final warning.”

The aristocrats looked to the Archon. Quietly, as if a breath, he said, “Do it.”

The two guardsmen moved forward gingerly, and deconstructed the barricade in front of the door. As the final piece came down, they once again looked back at the Archon, who nodded to them. The doors opened, and light flooded the room.

Cheers erupted from the vhepasi outside, to be met with an order of “SILENCE!” from the General. The cheering cut out. The General moved into the chambers. The Archon stood by the table, and the two guards moved once again to intercept. They crossed their spears. The General looked at the two with disbelief, before looking to the Archon in disgust.

“I come here with an army, I defeat your compatriots outside, and you think you can stop me with these?”

The Archon leant back on the table. He remained silent for a moment, before finally speaking.

“I recall this happening much the same way not long ago. I’ll tell you again: you kill me, you die.”

This time, however, General Zatu was not helpless against the Archon’s threats. His face began to twist into a smile; “Though I may very much want to, I am not here to kill you;” the General raised his voice to the other aristocrats in the room; “I am here to protect our nation’s institutions from a man who endangers them! I am here to stop an ill-conceived invasion of lands before it rots our nation from the inside!” He pointed to the Archon with his sword, and the guardsmen tightened their grips on their spears; “I am here to remove a tyrant, and those who would support him, before he kills us all.”

Risdesu ne Cakuvis, Heari of the Thiton, spoke up, his voice carrying through the hall, “And on whose authority do you do this? Do you legally come here, kill our men, and attempt to imprison most of our aristocrats? Or do you do this out of a feeling of superiority?”

Zatu looked towards Risdesu and sneered; “I come here under the authority of the King.”

Many within the Thiton were shocked by this. The Patriarch of ne Meaga seemed more enthused than shocked. The Archon gazed at him most of all. He didn’t even seem surprised.

“Tell us, did the King prophesy?” ne Meaga spoke, an act of political theatre, “What did he say? You must tell us!”

The Thiton erupted into cries asking to hear the prophecy. The Archon looked back to the General, curious as to what he would say. The General lowered his sword, and spoke reverently to the assembled aristocrats.

“He spoke to me and said that there will be a mistake. It will cause pain, despair, change… An attack will fail, the sword will come crashing down,” groans from the assembled aristocrats emboldened the General, who began to speak louder; “The head of the snake is bitten off! It cannot be allowed to eat its own tail!” Groans turned to wails in the stead of such prophecy, “The sword’s edge is blunted, and the way of things irrevocably altered. And in all of this, YOU, Archon Capuanuitu Pesku, are at the centre of it all! Our King declared this: TRUTH!

The wails continued, seemingly egged on by the loudest wails of Patriarch ne Meaga. Cries of anguish turned to those of anger. Cries for the Archon to be arrested, put on trial, even executed, filled the chamber. In the commotion, the dulled Archon didn’t even notice the two guardsmen grabbing him, and forcing him outside.

--------------------------------------------------

The battle raged on. Jaukusu’s forces were being outperformed. The rangers at the rear could pepper the lines of enemies well, but shields stopped arrows, and arrows came from the vhepas archers within the Puedes He’s ranks. The droning wail of the Carnyx sent shivers down the spines of all of the troops, especially those vhepasi in Jaukusu’s own army. Jaukusu himself fought with the Nesi Natuisas, and his sword managed to bat away many of the enemy’s spears, and his large, round shield, almost akin to those of the Nesi Natui themselves, was scuffed and battered. He felt himself losing his breath as the strain of battle took its toll. He could not see how his vhepasi were doing from the centre. The Carnyx continued to drone. In a moment of curiosity, he looked up at the strange serpent’s head on the Carnyx, seeing it pointed towards his own army. He continued to stare at it, until a wild screech came from it. It turned quickly, as if on the spot, towards the army of the Puedes He.

--------------------------------------------------

The evening of the successful plot. The Archon languished in a cell, the Thiton baying for blood, and two Generals sat in their meeting-hall, a job well done, awaiting the victorious return of the final two. Castasu brought a pale bottle of ale from his stash and two glasses, offering one to Zatu and taking one for himself. The two men were exhausted, but could celebrate a hard, long day.

“It’s a victory, my friend, and one that should save Nesketos at that!” Castasu exclaimed, raising his glass, “I think we can celebrate our real victory here with a toast! What shall we toast to?”

Zatu stood upright, smiling broadly; “I think it’s only fair that we toast to the very reason we engaged in this course of action,” he held his glass up in front of him, “For Nesketos!”

“For Nesketos!” Castasu laughed, bumping his glass against Zatu’s. Both men sat down. Zatu would have liked Achaikos and Incristu to have been there before they started the celebration, but if Castasu wanted to celebrate now, there was no force on Arkonos who could stop him. After taking a gulp of ale, Castasu once again spoke.

“Of course now, the real politicking starts,” Castasu spoke firmly to Zatu, “The Thiton will have to essentially neuter both ne Cakuvis and Pesku. It will be a long process, but well worth it.”

Zatu chuckled, taking a sip of his ale, before retorting; “What do you care if those houses lose out? The whole position of Archon needs to be ripped out, root and stem, but the houses can keep whatever spoils they like. It’s the institution that needs to be changed, not just who occupies it.”

Castasu furrowed his brow at the General’s words, “Wouldn’t a friendly Archon be a benefit to us? He could organise for better funding, better equipment… We could finally have an army suitable to defend our homeland.”

Zatu gazed in his own state of confusion at his compatriot beside him on the table; “I’m sorry… Didn’t we just fight to get rid of an Archon? I’m not sure I want him replaced by another, even if he is friendly to us.”

“But I think…”

“And let me tell you, I wouldn’t allow that slimy aristocrat ne Meaga in the office of Archon any more than I would allow that Pesku to come back,” he sighed deeply, before taking a swig of his ale. Castasu stayed silent for a moment, seeming to brood.

“Yes, you will.”

Zatu scoffed; “I’m sorry, what?”

“You will allow ne Meaga to take the office of Archon. You will not oppose him. You will enjoy your victory while the Thiton eventually makes the right choice.”

Zatu gazed for a while at his compatriot. Then his eyes widened. Zatu had thought Castasu ought not be this invested, for he wasn’t a ne Meaga. But he was a Lagas. And the house Lagas had always supported ne Meaga. Perhaps some force had caused Castasu to shift loyalties, or perhaps a bribe or two. Zatu did think Castasu’s robes looked somewhat more resplendent this night than they had in many. And where did he get this lovely bottle of ale?

The sound of a Carnyx blared outside.

“For Nessus’ sake, we’ve told them not to blare that racket within audible range of the city,” Castasu complained, putting his glass back onto the table, “The Nesi Natui will hear my complaints, and someone will be punished for that.”

Castasu was right, it was close. Very close. The only Carnyx in the Nesi Natui barracks had gone with Achaikos out to meet Jaukusu - at least, the only one the Puedes He knew of. And no scout reports had come back saying that Achaikos was on his way home. There hadn’t even been a confirmation of his victory.

“We tell them they can’t have their disgusting venomous food in our mess hall, we tell them not to do their endless parades on our parade grounds. You’d think someone would have gotten the message by now - we want them as far from here as possible.”

A sound like heavy rain hitting the roof snapped the two out of their conversation. A frightened vhepas shivered his way into the meeting room. The two generals looked at each other.

--------------------------------------------------

The Generals stepped outside of their building. Around them, arrayed in a fan-shape, were the black-cloaked Ikori of the Nesi Natui, and behind them, the green-cloaked Heleni of the Crotaclean rangers. In front of them all stood a General, armour tattered and wound-wrappings on his head. And yet, for as much of a picture as he looked, Jaukusu smiled at the two timid generals exiting the Puedes He building.

“Hello General Zatu,” he said, his face with a coy expression upon it, “Have you missed me?”

Castasu stood, mouth agape. Zatu simply looked around him at the arrayed Nesi Natui. He could surmise the rest.

“So, they turned tail and fought for you instead?”

Jaukusu’s smile turned to a scowl. His face seemed to twist with a rage he had kept secret to that point; “You sent Nesketans to kill Nesketans. You sent Ikori to their deaths. There is something truly despicable about you that you would call patriots traitors for choosing the correct side.”

Castasu finally found the courage to say something; “Tell me… Where are Achaikos and Incristu? You must have brought them back alive, you must have… You wouldn’t kill…”

One after the other, two objects hit the ground beside the generals. Castasu gazed at the objects, moving to turn one over. Zatu didn’t need to look at it to know that one was the head of Incristu. The other must have been Achaikos’.

“You… You butcher! You animal! You uncivilised barbarian! Lejenna, Jaukusu, Leje-

Tse cunam!”

The entire army readied their weapons in unison, as if to attack. Castasu turned silent, as Jaukusu fumed a little longer.

“You killed one of mine. Lamanuisu was worth ten Incristus, maybe fifty Achaikoses… You should be lucky I only had two of your generals on-hand.”

“We know you’re not averse to killing a few of your enemies in cruel and unusual ways,” Zatu sneered, “So what will you do to us, eh? Cut off our tails and sell us into slavery?”

Castusu looked hurriedly from Zatu to Jaukusu, his eyes doing all of the begging necessary for the both of them without him saying a word. Jaukusu bit his lower lip and exhaled deeply; “Fortunately for you, while I may be a ‘butcher’ or an ‘animal’, I understand justice,” he stated, looking between both of them; “I will not kill you.”

Zatu understood Jaukusu’s implication perfectly, even if he hadn't seen the two Nesi Natuisas escorting the Archon to where they stood, alongside Risdesu ne Cakuvis. The Archon smiled broadly, while Risdesu simply stood, looking like a proud father. Jaukusu turned to the Archon, and stood to attention.

“Well, General Jaukusu, it appears you have done very well indeed,” the Archon stated warmly, “Expanded the borders of Nesketos far beyond the degree to which we had originally hoped, brought with you the elite Crotaclean rangers to add to our army…” he gazed over to where Zatu and Castusu stood, chuckling as he did so, “And brought an end to the most insidious plot that Nesketos has seen in her recent history. Risdesu was right, you truly were the right Ikori for the job.”

Jaukusu bowed respectfully to the Archon; “Thank you, Zematu. And here, I’ve brought…”

The Archon raised his hand to stop him, “That can wait. Your men should celebrate their return to the Great City, and we have a couple of political messes to sort out first, courtesy of those four. Once those have been completed, we can make official ceremonies as required;” He held out his arm, “You’ve done well, General.”

Jaukusu gripped the Archon’s forearm with pride. At last, he had returned, the campaign complete. As the Archon moved to inspect the troops, Jaukusu ordered some of his men to remand Zatu and Castusu into custody. The night air lay silent, until the Carnyx again blew in the distance. Victory. It truly tasted sweet.

Rolais, Dhorvas, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

Chirenai

The Torch

Copost with Eskeland, Riddenheim, and Elvhenen

Journey's End, Voksarca

The sea broke against the rocks below the cliff that marked the end of Qirinai’s dominion and the beginning of the sea’s. Not too long ago, Grand Princess Kaeleirai thought, and the sea hoped to claim dominion over all of us. And now that was close to being forgotten in the space of just a few years. There were always new matters of state, new crises. It was not what any of those warriors deserved. But that was why everyone was gathering today, so perhaps there was hope after all.

She turned from the cliff, and moved back to the stage that had been set up for her to speak. The makeshift amphitheater was already close to full, and the first few rows were filled with dignitaries from around Sokos. She caught sight of someone in the traditional dress of Volgaro. She didn’t recognize them, and with the rumors swirling of what was happening in the north, it was not surprising that it was probably a minor functionary that had attended, but the thought was appreciated. Some had traveled from even beyond Sokos, she discovered, as a group of what she had mistaken for dsen she belatedly realized were in fact gorrin.

"The beauty before me rivals that of the endless sea." Tassarion said as his eyes gazed upon the Grand Princess, a wide smile upon his face. He approached her and gently patted her shoulder. "Are you nervous?" The Empyrian said.

“Who could possibly be nervous after such flagrant flattery?” The answer was flippant, but afterwards, Kaeleirai took a moment to consider before answering further. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure how she’d felt until just now. She shook her head. “But no, I am not. This dedication is needed for all of us to heal. It will not bring back the loved ones that died — in that catastrophe or in any of those subsequent — but a memorial allows us to be proud of them easier, and that can blunt the spear of loss.

Tassarion nodded in respect to the Grand Princess, smiling a bit. "Forgive me my momentary lapse of reason. Yes, you're right. Nothing can replace the loved ones taken in such a bloody conflict. The faces of those lost under my command during my campaign in Qirinai continue to haunt me, but it isn't out of scorn, nor hatred. The faces bring comfort. Knowing that they'll never be lost upon their leader, their commander. I wonder if not more of these statues should be dedicated to those lost. I know that mothers and fathers continue to weep over the loss of their sons and daughters in Elvhenen and shrines continue to dot the streets of the capital. Perhaps one should be brought to our own home? Perhaps they should be all over Sokos. Even then, it would not seek to pay in full to those who paid the highest of price to secure their home, their families and their countries." Tassarion said.

Kaeleirai nodded. “Nothing could ever repay them. But they will at least have a lasting resting place. When those children grow up, and their children become adults, they will be able to bring each new generation here to honor their ancestors that were lost.” She left him then, and made her way through the crowd.

As she was finding her way to the stage, a line of digitnaries met her, and one of her aides popped up at her elbow. Someone had to memorize the names and backgrounds of all these people - Kaeleirai never would. She fell into a brief exchange of pleasantries with the Matriarch of Voksarca, and then moved on. She wagered Francesca would be surprised by the end of the day. As she concluded that greeting, her aide brought forward a new conversant. "My lady, may I present the delegation from Iskland." She made the normal mistake that most Qirinii did with foreign names with that odd vowel sound that fell between the proper ones. "This is Stifan Maximillian Olle av Skarhamn-Olme, Marquis of Skarhamn, 12th Lord Skarhamn." The aide bowed and stepped back to clear the way for a tall, pale man with black hair, flanked on either side by what Kaeleirai could only assume were his bodyguards.

Kaeleirai was immediately struck by the severe expression on the man's face, as if he'd never laughed a day in his life. She'd have to be careful with this one. "Welcome to Qirinai, Lord Skarhamn. I trust your journey was not too eventful?"

"Not at all, the sea breeze was pleasant as always." Said Stefan, maintaining an emotionless expression that was typical of him, "But thank you for your warm welcome Lady Kaeleirai."
And I think you for coming today. The sudden attack from the seas shocked us all, and I'm grateful to see that even nations we knew nothing of previously are showing their solidarity. We all lost soldiers in the fight."

"I know that feeling, I myself lost something once..."It looked as if Stefan was holding something back, however, he never showed, "We do what we must Lady Kaeleirai, should we have known something like this happened back then, we would have sent help, but news from other places tend to reach us... late."

"We were just the same. We managed only a small force. I pray they died well and not at sea. But they did not have to be asked to go; each and every one of them was a volunteer and though their sacrifice was keenly felt, the blessing of being alive now is also felt and it's all thanks to them."

They exchanged a nod, and her aide moved the line along. Kaeleirai wished she had more time to speak to everyone… all these people who had lost loved ones and countrymen to the sea, but these were matters of state, not of the heart, and words grew more numerous than the minutes she had left, so she prepared to move along as well.

Behind the nobleman from Eskland was another group, a larger one, and by description, Kaeleirai believed she recognized them. The aide whispered a name in her ear and she moved forward. "Grand Prince Vasily, is it not? It is an honor to meet you." She did bow out of deference this time, not only because his title was equal to hers - at least her inherited one - but also because she knew that Riddenheim's losses had been severe. "I only wish that it was in celebration rather than memorial."

The Grand Prince was a tall yet haggard man. What had once been a large and imposing figure had been made feeble by age and grief. His frail body was covered in a beautiful kaftan while his balding head was covered by a fur brimmed cap. He leaned heavily on his jewel-encrusted cane, his eyes puffy and red from tears and his breath heavy with the stench of strong vodka.

“Thank you, Grand Princess.” He removed his cap and bowed before Kaeleiai. He sighed deeply before he continued to speak sadly, “So many brave souls lost to repel the invaders… three of my own sons gave their lives for this world. We who still walk this world have a duty to remember their sacrifice, and to always regard them as heroes.” Tears swelled in his eyes and his voice began to break as he returned his cap to his scalp and finished his speech.

Kaeleirai reached out a hand - not exactly decorous, but she tired of protocol - and laid it on the older man's arm. "We all mourn with you. And their flame will burn for as long as Qirinai is able to make it so."

Grand Prince Vasily said nothing more, just grabbed her hand and nodded gratefully, and Kaeleirai stood in silence for a short time with him, in respect for his lost future. But now for hers… She climbed up onto the stage, took her seat, and waited. The stage had been specially crafted for this event, with a long match cord trailing down under the seats and then up - far up - the memorial. The crowd settled in, and silence fell. Finally, a younger man, the son of one of the captains lost to the sea during the invasions, climbed to the stage. He would be speaking first, and then introducing her. He brought with him a torch, and set it next to the podium.

Kaeleirai's mind wandered.

She was forced to rouse herself out of her inward reflection when she heard her name being announced. This was it. She stood, strode purposefully to the podium, stood next to the torch, and took a breath.

“I would like to thank you all for coming. I am Kaeleirai. I have a title as well, but I am not addressing you with that title, because today, we are all bound by one thing. We are survivors. It is possible that we have been survivors for quite a long time. Qirinai’s history is full of survival. We were driven out of our homes many years ago, in a time far beyond memory, and we eked out an existence for centuries before we decided to rejoin the world. Each one of you here, Qirinai or no, has their own stories of survival.

“But today, we are united in survival that came through no skill of our own. We did not earn it. And in the most tragic turn of events - as often happens - those who did earn survival - for all of us - did not survive themselves. Many times, those that we lose, although they are not forgotten immediately, are lost again during the lives that we lead. When everything returns to normal and we no longer need to think about our pain and our loss, we simply choose to turn away, but not this time. We do not know what happened out to our west, in those massive waves, that cataclysmic storm. We do not know the details of what our brothers, our sisters, our sons, and our daughters did. We can never know what they went through, what terrors and pain they faced. But we do know one thing.

“We know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they fought with all their might and they won. If any of them were here today, they would be heroes to all of us, regardless of their race or birthplace. Sadly, they are not, but we are here today because they are still heroes, even though they are not here to receive their applause and acclaim.

“Those brave men and women that gave their lives are now part of our shared heritage, our history. They are part of us. The spirits of our ancestors surround us always. And so, to honor that, this torch will burn for them for as long as it remains in Qirinai's power to make it so."

With those words, she lifted the torch and brought it down on the match cord. And then, she stepped back and watched, with everyone else, as it sparked and sputtered its way down to the ground, and then started its long journey up the side of the memorial. Somewhere a druid watched, she knew, to make sure the cord remained burning until it reached its apex, but he made sure to keep himself hidden. And finally, the flame reached the top. It licked up into the painstakingly crafted magical lattice that hung in the middle of the cavity at the top of the memorial, and then flared to blinding life far above their heads.

"With this flame, we call home the spirits of those lost to us. Let them see the Beacon and follow it home.”

She paused again here, waiting out the applause. The words her advisors knew she was going to say were done. The ones she’d not shared with anyone yet were at hand.

“Qirinai was late to that fight, but I was proud to send those volunteers who insisted on joining their brothers and sisters. I have always been proud to lead the Qirinii as we rose from the conflicts of our past and took our place in the world. At first, I did so with hesitation, and then with eagerness, but it was always a privilege. But with the loss of our old cities, our people are now adapting to new circumstances, and I find myself adapting as well. This time, however, it is with trepidation, and a leader cannot lead from such a place. And so it is that I make this, the memorial to those we lost, my last official act. I can only offer you this as I pass the torch on to a new leader who will forge ahead into the future.

“The success of all your future endeavors is not assured. You will lose battles. There will be toil and tears, sleepless nights and heartache. But if you act for Qirinai and not for yourself, success will come for our people. Let the fires of Qirinai burn within you, and if necessary consume you, and then once again pass the torch on to your future.”

And with a slight bow she left the podium and the torch behind her.

Rolais, Elvhenen, Dhorvas, Riddenheim, and 3 othersRyeongse, Eskeland, and Nesketos

Withdraw

By the order of the Emperor of the Tong Dynasty, written by instruction of the Grand Imperial Minister, In Accordance of the Laws of the Imperial Ministry of the Tong Empire

By order of his Imperial Majesty, Tong Jong-Yai, Emperor of the Tong Dynasty; the Tong Empire announces the success of its mission in Dhorvas, the purpose of which was the stabilization and maintenance of trade in the area of the Bantry Bay and the Xinjan Sea. His Marshal Hongzhong-Din, Commander of all Imperial Forces and Commander of the Expedition into Dhorvas, and all men who serve and served under him shall return home to the Empire victorious having completed their state mission honorably and with swiftness and efficiency.

Let all those brave soldiers of the Empire who shed blood, their own or otherwise, be marked in glorious red. Returning home to friends and family, to loved ones and peers, as honored champions, and warriors. Let their names be honored eternally as the Empire’s guardians, as they set right all things in the Universe.

Let peaceful trade and conduct continue, both in the Empire and across the continent of Sokos.

Elvhenen, Dhorvas, The blacklight empire, Saeju, and 4 othersSyrduria, Ryeongse, Eskeland, and Nesketos

Dawn of the Drovichian Era
3k expansion post

Drovij sat outside and pondered, his reforms had stalled within the Volkiban, mostly due to the fears of the nobles in losing their power. The Volgars refused to let a Sudenmen ruler hold too much power once more and the Sudenmen wished to not lose power in order to counter the Volgars. All in all the wishes of the nobles was to keep the status quo. Lighting his pipe he sighed. “If only the fools could see that the path we walk will lead to oblivion.” He thought to himself before letting loose a cloud of smoke

The threat had increased with the events of the past days with the looming threat of war with Riddenheim and potentially all of Iskrenism.

He closed his eyes for a moment, memories of a soft hand on his shoulder, a loving and caring caress. Opening his eyes he saw the halls lit in celebration of the crowning of Reichherr Wilhelm III. Music filled his ears, the symphonic sounds of the royal troupe before a voice was heard yelling towards him.

In front of him was a large man in almost ancient looking straki armor, a large axe on his back, Drovij recognized him as the Lord Marshal before him a man by the name of Rogvir, a Volgar peasant that had climbed his way up the Drunaran guard from showing his prowess in combat during a Volgar “Taniśmier” or a tournament. He had been grandmaster before Drovij before Lord Marshal Ulrich Brun died with the Volkiban ignoring his appointed heir and son Alrich Brun for Rogvir.

Drovij looked at him with a questioning look, the man had died years ago, he quickly felt the giant’s hand clasp his shoulder. “Drovij my boy I know you lack people skills but you could at least force a smile! Instead you choose to close your eyes and sleep what sort of lad did I give my guard to!” Rogvir said, chuckling, his voice booming, feeling as though it shook Drovij’s very body with it’s sound.

Drovij went to question what he was seeing but the words that were spoken were not the same as though he only had control of his eyes but not his mouth.

“My Lord I tire of these balls. They are such a tiring affair, so many of these nobles choose to wear a mask of venomous intentions and false alliances.” Drovij said with disdain in his voice.

Rogvir looked to Drovij with concern. “Lad don’t ya know you will never get a woman when you paint that mug of yours with a frown constantly!” He then pointed his rather large fingers towards the ballroom. “Go join the rest of your lads and dance, find something other than the guard and Volgaro to protect.”

Drovij began moving towards the ballroom servants bowing to him as he entered, within the hall couples of many backgrounds danced to the now blasting of Volgar party music. In a chair sat Wilhelm clapping along with the music happily. A young woman stood beside him radiant as the moon during the long winter, hair the color of embers, her eyes were emeralds that glowed in the fireplace. She smiled at Drovij, noticing his staring, and began walking towards him.

Drovij stood stunned as she approached, only managing to bow, which was met with a curtsy.

“I apologize for staring my lady, if my gaze has offended you I will leave and carry out my duties elsewhere.” Drovij said bowing once more.

The woman giggled, smiling at the young Straki. “There is no need to apologize.” she said in an almost soothing voice. “If I was offended you would most certainly know Grandmaster Drovij.” She said with a mischievous grin.

Drovij pondered for a moment trying to figure out where he knew this woman from before it clicked within his head and he hit his knees. “Princess Maria, I humbly apologize for my misconduct!” He said his face red with embarrassment, he had in fact been looking at the sister of the Reichherr in a ignoble fashion.

The princess only giggled at the young straki’s embarrassment, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. “You may rise, Sir Drovij.” She said kindly.

Drovij stood the lady undoubtedly closer to him then she had been before his kneeling. A smile began to creep across the princess' face as she looked him in the eyes. “Would you care to dance sir Drovij?” She said mischievously, extending her hand for him to take it, which he of course obliged. The two danced for hours laughing, ending the night a way he would never have expected…a kiss.

Drovij opened his eyes once more the coldness of the night greeting him from his pleasant dream, welcoming him back to the madness of the present world.

He sighed a small tear falling down his face. “Oh Maria what madness have I let come to Volgaro on my watch?” He said , giving a small prayer before noticing a servant waiting behind him.

The Lord Marshal turned to the servant, all the warmth from the memory had faded as he spoke to the woman coldly. “What is it you need?”

“My Lord the Volkiban has been gathered again as you requested.” The servant said bowing.

“Thank you, you may leave.” Drovij said before lighting his pipe once more and walking to the Volkiban chambers, a large stack of documents within his arms.

An hour later the members of the Volkiban entered the room silently, a pleasant byproduct of the current events within their home. Drovij sat deep in the chair at the head of the council chamber smoking and reading his documents over and over again before he looked up to the nobles with a tired expression before standing.

“Lords and ladies of the realm, I have neither the time or energy to debate you as I have these many months, it I beg you listen to my words carefully and understand that now with the threat of war looming ahead, and the deaths of the guards and straki that chased down the criminals who seek to bring destruction to our home, we must change to fight these threats if not we shall see the oblivion come to Volgaro and her people.”

He held one of the documents in the air. “If nothing else this is the one thing we must change! This is the future of our warriors in a single document!” He then handed the paper to a servant nearby. “Read it off.”

“The Prawo Marszałka I Arystokracja.

Within the realms of Volgaro and Sudenburg we have always had a strong warrior tradition that has tied our cultures together, but no longer can only tradition guide our actions. In purpose this document is to set an alternative to the traditional Volgar armies headed by lords that was set in the Przywilej Rady.

The changes to the Przywilej Rady are as follows.

Any and all Soldiers or Straki under the command of the aristocratic council of the Volkiban will henceforth under this reform be granted under the command of the Lord Marshal and the newly formed Marshalry.

The Marshalry shall be led by the Lord Marshal with Marshals appointed by the lord’s of the Volkiban in his service, these Marshals shall advise and council the Lord Marshal in his duties to the Volgareich

The position of Lord Marshal shall henceforth become a position voted on by the aristocratic council Volkiban, with a single vote being granted to the previous Lord Marshal’s recommended heir.

With these reforms in mind the Lords of the Council shall henceforth fund the continuous supply and armament of the newly formed Royal Army.

Henceforth the Noble armies shall be diminished to what is only necessary for the protection of order and stability within their holdings.

These small forces will answer to a local Marshalry who shall, on the monthly Volkiban meetings, give as detailed of a report as possible to the Lord Marshal to ensure proper order is being maintained.

These Local Marshalries shall be gathered in what is to be known as the Armia Prowincji when they are needed for a large-scale defense of the motherland, conceding command of their forces to the Lord Marshal and the aristocratic council of the Volkiban’s appointed Marshal’s command. ”

The servant handed the paper back to the Lord Marshal, who took it and looked at a shocked chamber.

The Duke of Sudenburg stood face red with rage. “You would dare bring such a thing up in these hallowed halls after your actions have led to the deaths of men and the antagonization of the Riddenheimers! If you were not the Lord Marshal I would say you must be the chamber’s jester!” he said laughing for a moment before a man from his own side stood pointing his finger into the Duke’s chest.

The man, who usually was a rather quiet member of the Volkiban was the Count and Baron of Utreik, Horst Van Etelsmit, who in fact was dwarfed by the duke but stood tall against his fellow Sudenman. “You blabbering charlatan! Do you do anything other than challenge every solution that does not lead to the outcome of you becoming the Reichherr! My lands supply the armies of all of the realm yet you do not see me jumping to strike down every reform targeted at bringing the realm together!”

Before the count could finish his tirad the Lord Marshal put his hand in the air to command silence within the chamber before looking toward Duke Ernst.

“While you may be trying to wound me with clever words my nephew the only reason you can claim to be the Duke of the south is due to Isabella’s royal force being sent along with Volgar forces to help you on your conquest, so Mały Król what do you know of what it takes to win a battle when yours was won for you?”

The Duke went to respond before another Sudenmen stood. “Ernst, sit down before you bring more shame upon the Reinhardt name with your display, even I for once agree with the man, this is not a one sided action every noble shall feel the burden of war, each one of us must be ready to help their homeland win against outside threats.” The man then looked across the room. “Even if we must work with the likes of our peers.”

A man from the Volgar side of the room spoke up. “For once me and Count Dragel agree, despite his obvious disdain for my people who made this land he happens to be within, but we of Volga Zimnara stand beside the Lord Marshal and her majesty!”

Drovij nodded.“Thank you Count Dragel and Chief Solomin, we must band together in time such as this no longer can we remain divided by our cultures, no longer can our armies be so
neutered by this council and it’s tenacious tendency to argue and bicker till another Kostuan decides to open the sky once more and brings the Wielk once more to besiege this world.”

He held up the document once more. “This may only be the beginning but the passing of this shall lead us to victory against those who would harm our great motherland!”

The vote began swiftly, with an almost unanimous decision by the Volkiban to enact the reform, with two nay votes, Duke Ernst of Sudenburg and Chief Rurik X Drovic.

“Then it is done, tomorrow we will decide the marshals who shall serve under me, then I shall march for the border in the hopes of swaying the Riddenheimic fools to stay on their soil.” Drovij smacked the table with his book dismissing the Volkiban, but before being able to walk out he was approached by Chief Drovic.

“Lord Marshal, what of the 20,000 in Kohlenbirke would they not be useful here?” Drovic said with a worried expression which was met with a tired look from Drovij.

“I have faith your son will pacify the Kohlenbirkers and return with not only those men but the army of Kohlenbirke, but I will send a rider south if that would ease your nerves.” The Lord Marshal said bluntly, looking at the Volgar lord waiting for him to move out of his way.

Chief Drovic nodded, bowing to the Lord Marshal and stepping out of the man’s way.

The following night was filled with bickering within the different quarters of the Lords of Volkiban.

In the western wing the Volgar chiefs argued over who to send and why they should.

At the head of the table sat Rusev Vlasti, sleep had almost taken him multiple times while sitting through his subjects bickering. He raised his hand commanding silence within the room. “Whatever the case for each of your choices, but at the end of the day we voted in this reform, and by it’s words the choice of who will be your House’s Marshal is yours let no other lord tell you otherwise.” He paused, taking a deep breath.

“Saying such then my house will be appointing Maxim Vladov as the Marshal of House Vlasti, and would suggest he head the provincial forces for the Volgar side of the armies.”

Chief Marov was the next to stand. “I am appointing Polikarp Kot. He has served Volgaro and my house fervently since he became a straki.”

Following him Solomon Vadik stood. “I am appointing Lech Sarna, he has served me faithfully as a general so shall he serve as a Marshal for our motherland.”

“House Radislav appoints Grandmaster Kasimir Radislav, if he can lead the Drunaran guard then he will counsel his former leader with dignity and honor.”
Chieftess Radislav said without standing.

Chief Drovic was the first to stand up, face red with anger. “So you have turned this farce of a reform into a circus?!! Your choice is one of your blood only continuing what this was supposedly meant to stop.”

“Kasimir most likely will be chosen as Drovij’s successor, he might as well learn those who will be surrounding him during his time as Lord Marshal.” Chief Vadik said bluntly. “I see no reason why Lady Radislav should change her choice of Marshal.”

“Did you expect all of us to either choose a non-puppet or throw a tantrum over this? We still are playing a game of chess with the Sudenmen and instead of arguing in the Volkiban we must make our presence known in the Marshalry, that is the only difference in this exchange.” Cheiftess Radislav said with a frown on her face.

Rurik pointed his finger towards the woman. “You would go along with this farce just to continue some sort of cowardly game?!” He crossed his arms before letting out a sigh. “I am appointing Sir Leopold Musil of Saint Ulrich’s own, at least he will be in favor of his people over just my house.” He said with spite layered in his words.

This went on within both the Volgar and Sudenmen sides of the Cathedral, till when the sun rose on the next evening the Marshalry had been formed.

Drovij sat in his room, picking up his feather pen before writing on a leftover parchment from his time writing his reform.

“To the Great Emperor Throkki

You may not remember me for it has been so many months since I visited your realm after the departure of your father from the living world. Yet I send this letter to beg you to answer your fathers promise of defense not only against the Tong, but against the Riddenheimic hoard that threatens our sovereignty.

My lady would have been the one to write this letter but she is abroad after her marriage to one of the princes of your ally Serulea.

So I must beg you to march even a poultry force to the north and stand with us against what could become Jander’s affront to common decency, an affront to what we discussed during the great mourning and celebrations within your realm.

Let it be known that we would also extend our defense to both you and your Allies if the time would come either the southern elves or perfidious Tong decide to move against your lands.

Our forces shall hold the Riddenheimers at bay till I receive a response from your majesty.

With great hope, Lord Marshal Drovij Van Utreik.”

He set his feather aside taking a deep breath before summoning and sending a rider to the west, to contact the dwarves of The blacklight empire in the hopes of joining the southern alliance known as the concordat, if in the end he and his men could not stop this war, then hopefully the dwarves and the Seruleans could save the Volgareich from becoming a puppet to an outside force.

Again he closed his eyes thinking once again back on days long past, visions of his wife playing with his son, a large smile on young Clodomiro’s face before his rest was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come in.” The Lord Marshal said, fluttering his eyes open looking towards the door. In the doorway stood a relatively unopposing man in a gaudy outfit, with what could be considered armor protecting his chest.

“Marshal Samo, to what do I owe the interruption?” Drovij said looking over the Hallishman who, reasons unknown to Drovij, had been chosen to represent House Augusti.

The Hallishman bowed. “The army has been gathered as you commanded, all the marshals are ready to march to the border on your command.”

Drovij sighed, picking up his pipe and lighting it before looking back to the Hallishman. “Get them prepared to march within the hour, and I warn you, run like you did from your kinfolk and I shall see to it I deliver your traitorous corpse in two pieces back home, one to the syrds and one to the Hallish.” he said letting out a plume of smoke before scowling towards the Hallishman. “Now get out.”

Rolais, The blacklight empire, Chirenai, Syrduria, and 2 othersRyeongse, and Eskeland

To Kill a King?

Almost immediately after being released from custody, the Archon had called for emergency powers to be given to him. Given the string of sudden imprisonments, not least that of the patriarch of ne Meaga under similar charges of conspiracy as the two still-living Puedes He generals, most of the Thiton agreed to grant him such powers for three months, no longer. The next thing he did was force through the necessary prerequisite work for a military procession in honour of Jaukusu and his conquests.

But a more pressing matter had to be dealt with, even as the preparations for the procession continued. For every member of the Thiton had heard the disgraced General Zatu speak of some ill-tiding that awaited them as punishment if they continued to take more land. It had been the catalyst that led to so many calling for his arrest, baying for his blood. Capuanuitu Pesku leant down on his desk, shut his eyes and thought a moment. The confidence of the Thiton was still something he needed were he to maintain a grip on power. And if they thought he was doomed to blight Nesketos, he would not curry their favour much longer. A more final attempt on his title would take place, one that could not be so easily reversed. And yet what he considered was not something every Archon wanted to consider. He strode to his door and peered out of it, finding the steward of the Zematumas outside of it. The steward turned to the Archon and bowed. The Archon spoke.

“Send for the representatives. I need to speak to the King.”

--------------------------------------------------

Waiting in the royal palace for a meeting with the King to occur with someone else was not the most exciting of jobs. Indeed, were the Archon not secretly worried, he would find himself bored to tears waiting here for the King’s representative, the Calaseri, to return. The Calaseri, alongside the Menaskeri, handled all interaction between the Thiton and government and the strange royal court of Nesketos. Both men were chosen by the King and his Taemeri respectively, rather than by the Thiton. As such, the King often felt he could confide in his Calaseri. In the past, Archon Capuanuitu had used this to gain insight into the King’s activities. Such as when he had heard that Zatu met with the King only a few weeks prior to his eventual treachery. It still hadn’t helped him learn what prophecy the King would have given him - he would not learn that until the day he was arrested. And yet the King must surely have known…

The door opened with a creak, and the Calaseri stepped out of the King’s office, different from his ‘Room of Sight’. This office was from where the King completed the few matters of state still afforded him. As the Calaseri’s eyes met the Archon’s, he shook his head.

“He won’t tell you anything?”

“He doesn’t remember anything.”

The two began to walk down the hallways of the King’s palace. The Archon attempted to clarify.

“I don’t understand… What exactly doesn’t he remember?”

The Calaseri shrugged his shoulders, “He remembers the morning, and knowing that he was to meet with General Zatu. He had his Serpent Keeper prepare the herbs for the meeting, and he ingested them with no problem. While talking about later events, he just seems to trail off… I can’t tell if he remembers and doesn’t want to speak of it, or if it is truly a lapse in his memory.”

The Archon was dumbfounded by this. Did the King not even want to save his own life? Why was he being so vague on this matter? Was it age, or merely stubbornness? Or perhaps the King was ready for death? Whatever the case was, it was clear that the Archon would not gain any useful information from the King.

The Calaseri evidently had more to say; “If I may, Archon… Nothing would be gained by having the King killed now. The only one who heard the prophecy has been discredited; for all we know, he made up most of the details… There’s no need for the King to die for this.”

The Archon gazed back to the Calaseri for a moment, before sadly smiling. The Menaskeri, the Calaseri’s counterpart for the Taemeri, who was the heir and potential executioner of the King, approached the two. The Archon looked over to him, to which the Menaskeri merely nodded. The Calaseri knew the relevance. The speed of the Calaseri’s departure indicated his dissatisfaction with current events. The Archon did not need to speak to the Menaskeri to know the relevance of his answer, before he left also. The Archon was alone in the royal palace, considering what he would do. That is, until the King's Serpent Keeper approached the Archon from the shadows.

“That’s not entirely true,” he said to the Archon, his low and gravelly voice grating on the ears. The Archon turned to him, cocking his head.

“What’s not true?”

“General Zatu was not the only one to hear the King’s prophecy,” he folded his hands in front of him, “I did also.”

The Archon turned to the Serpent Keeper, a look of urgency upon his face met with seeming ambivalence from the Serpent Keeper; “You must tell me; why did the King predict Jaukusu’s actions would lead to chaos?”

“Now, mine is not for the ‘whys’ of prophecy, Archon, I merely tend to the ‘whats’,” the Serpent Keeper almost seemed amused by the Archon’s insinuation, “Only the King could tell you ‘why’, but for some reason known only to him, he will not speak. I can tell you what was said.”

“Then you must,” the Archon implored the Serpent Keeper; “The King’s life depends on it.”

The Serpent Keeper sighed deeply; “I can tell you that the King did not specify to whom the prophecy referred. I cannot tell you to whom it did refer. General Zatu claimed the prophecy referred to Jaukusu, and by extension, to you,” the Serpent Keeper’s eyes fixed firmly on the Archon’s; “But I could imagine, were some to reinterpret his words, they could be used to condemn the General himself.”

The Archon’s brow furrowed. He was confused. The Serpent Keeper, feeling the weight of the prophecy he was about to relay, spoke again to the Archon.

“‘There will be a mistake. A terrible mistake that one will regret so much. It will cause such pain, such despair. Things will change forever. An attack fails, the sword comes down.’”

The Archon understood at last; “Zatu’s mistake. His sword comes down.”

The Serpent Keeper nodded; “‘The head of the snake is bitten off before it eats its own tail. The sharp edge of the sword is blunted before it can sweep at its enemy. The way of things altered, if a path is not averted,’” the Keeper straightened himself back up, continuing; “The King needn’t have predicted the folly of conquest. He may simply have predicted the folly of Zatu’s own civil strife.”

The Archon could see what he meant. If he killed the King, surely that would exonerate Zatu. He, as it could be seen by all, was only acting on false prophecy by the King. But if it was Zatu’s own false interpretation of the prophecy, he was the one referred to. The King’s prophecy would have been correct. Thus, the Archon could do away with the last remnants of the Puedes He, do away with the vhepasi, enforce the changes he wanted, and would be seen as the fulfiller of prophecy rather than doomed by it. The reigns of power could stay firmly in his hands, while there would be no more expense to change the monarch over.

“Does this satisfy you, Archon?”

“Very much so, yes,” the Archon stated calmly, with a smile, “I must thank you for this. Truly.”

The Archon wheeled around, to leave, and to allow the Menaskeri to be notified of the fact that the Taemeri would not kill the King that day. The Serpent Keeper stood in the halls, hands folded, watching the Archon go by. Did the Archon believe him? Perhaps. The Serpent Keeper did not believe himself. Perhaps one lie would yet cause further tragedy, for temporary relief.

Rolais, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

The Glory of Victory

The military procession of Jaukusu consisted of the following:

At the head of the triumphal column rode two Ikori on horseback, one carrying a horn, which they blew to signal the following column, and one with a scroll, who repeatedly read a list of achievements of the General to the adoring crowd, allowing them to fully appreciate his military actions.

The first part of the following procession was the, admittedly fairly meagre, cart from Theodyma. Upon it stood beef cattle, lowing and altogether unfamiliar with the land they now resided in. These cattle would be slaughtered for a feast in Jaukusu’s honour.

The second was a cart filled with tea, burnt as if incense. As it passed the crowds, many inhaled the smoke, and enjoyed with the rest the odour of the new resource. This cart was from Mylethra, and the tea was now a resource of Nesketos itself.

The third cart was made of Crotaclean oak, varnished and beautiful, and upon it lay bows, timbers, other woodworked crafts. Behind this cart however marched the new additions to the military, the Crotaclean Rangers, dressed in their usual green cloaks. They carried their own bows and arrows with them. They were considered trustworthy soldiers, at the very least by Jaukusu.

The fourth cart had been planned to only consist of goats and beechwood craft. However, prospectors touring Jaukusu’s new conquests noted that there was a presence of a resource seemingly unexpected in Erethissa - black gemstones. The scholars of Nesketos told the prospectors that these were valued, highly prized among all of the treasures thus brought back. The few of these black gems that had been retrieved stood in a pile at the very top of the cart.

Fifth came no cart, merely a parade of elephants, followed closely by a rather disorganised parade of sheep. These were to be presented also to the Archon. So Jaukusu had heard, there was apparently word of using these elephants in combat. He was not sure how elephant riders would carry themselves, but he would endeavour to try and use them well.

The penultimate procession was a procession of slaves, from all across the conquered lands, as well as, at the very rear of the slave procession, a cart with four prisoners - two of these were the captured Kings of Erethissa and Delynthos, as well as General Zatu and General Castasu, both now disgraced.

And finally, as if the main event, the army, returned triumphal. The large assorted Nesi Natui followed Jaukusu, Eutropios and Pazu, and the vhepasi followed them. The peasants showered them with flowers as they passed, and they all waved to them.

As the rear of the procession approached the Archon, the three commanders dismounted their horses. They ascended the steps to meet him, carrying with them five packages. Each, one at a time, was unwrapped by the Archon.

Inside four of the packages sat Ikori tails in various stages of decomposition. In all five were golden crowns. In the four that had tails in them, the tails were wrapped around the crowns, tied and secured. The fifth was, of course, Eutropios’ own crown, rescinded with full acceptance that it would be repaid with full membership in the Thiton, as Jaukusu had promised.

As the giving over of the crowns concluded, the Archon had the crowd silenced. A speaker shouted out the King’s prophecy, as well as the interpretation that the state now supported - Zatu had erred, it was not now up for debate. The speaker now asked the peasants what was to be done with the traitors. Cries of “death”, “kill them”, and many other similar cries came up through the population. Zatu silenced them again. As they wanted, the traitors would be killed. The speaker now asked the peasants what was to be done with the now-enslaved Kings. Once again, the crowd bayed for death. The Archon’s own executioner descended the steps to bring up the four Ikori from the cart.

Zatu came peacefully. Castasu appeared to be shaking, muttering something to himself, praying one final time, or begging for life. Origenes of Delynthos and Nikanor of Erethissa both protested heavily at their supposed mistreatment. Origenes was the first to be executed. Then Nikanor. Castasu’s death brought the most joy thus far from the crowd. Zatu’s final act was to sneer at Jaukusu. He placed his head down peacefully, and the crowd became ecstatic. As the axe fell, it was as if a riot of joy erupted through the city.

From the nearby palace, the King watched on in silence.

--------------------------------------------------

Jaukusu had been ordered to stay in the city. He was to oversee the final dismantling of the vhepasi. It was ironic, an institution that had once been for levies during wartime had since become almost a slave army, a tax on the aristocracy of Ikori. He had been honoured and named ‘Marshal of Nesketos’, the sole leader of the whole military. But while Jaukusu remained in the city, the Archon sent the newly promoted Pazu to the north, with 200 Nesi Natuisas, and also back to Crotaclea with the remaining Crotaclean Rangers. He instructed the new General to take two of the northern Kingdoms, one, Delanais, at the south end of the ‘Breadbasket of the Helenicanta’, and the other, Rhegarnae, a cotton-farming settlement. It was unlikely that he would be unsuccessful, and everyone involved knew this. It was all part of a larger plan that the Archon had, to expand yet further, though exactly how, the Archon didn’t reveal every detail. Nesketos was once again on the rise.

Rolais, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

The Question of the Parlement

Outside of the Binnenhof, Kaiserhude

Another unsuccessful session had gone by, and nothing had been solved, Prince Maximiliaan was running out of patience and was even starting to show it. That was the third consecutive time that he had to preside over the Parlement and watch as it got nothing done and it wasn't uncommon from them to not get anything done. It had happened many times before on issues that could change the politics of the country or could affect any of their positions.

Maximiliaan left the Binnenhof with much displeasure. He was about to mount his carriage to leave when he was stopped by Hendrik, one of the members of the Parlement and one of the few who were not corrupt. He waved and shouted at him, "Mijn Heer! Wait a second!" He said.

Maximiliaan turned around and his face of anger turned into one of relief. He was happy to see him. He told his guards to stay their weapons and the carriage driver to wait, then he greeted Hendrik, "Goedendag Hendrik, what is it you need today."

"Goedendag mijn heer, I just wanted to speak to you about today's session of the Parlement"

"Ah yes... the incredible failure that was today's session, where I sat for more than four hours hearing old men bickering about irrelevant stuff, international politics and pure nonsense to prolong the session and not get anything done once more. No need to remind me of that Hendrik, there's better things to think about, like that beautiful damsel I saw in the park yesterday." He said, his expression turning to one of pleasure by the end.

"N-no my lord, I meant we need to do something about it, otherwise we are going to continue on a never ending loop, they are becoming better every day at that and we need to act now and fast. I had a few ideas, one of them is to start by slowly replacing the more insignificant ones with people loyal to you."

"I don't know Hendrik, seems like too much of an inconvenience and then what? They may, by the end of the day, turn corrupt like the rest. I think it would be better if I dissolve the Parlement and get this over with by passing all the laws myself. That would certainly teach them."

"But my lord, what about the people?"

"What about them, Hendrik?"

"They would be angry sir. That would view it as an act of tyranny, a return to the old days. The Kostuans never gave us any representation inside their government and now that we are independent and we can, we must. Is what our people wanted back then and is what they want today."

"But what about my great grandfather? There was no parliament back then and he got stuff done! No one bothered him about what he could and could not do, and no one complained about representation."

"Yes, but he was later forced to create one, the people wanted one, they wanted a voice inside and your great grandfather was a man of the people so he gave it to them, at first it was nobles but then slowly he allowed the commoners to join and voice their complaints and now it's your job to keep that alive sir."

Maximiliaan stood there for some time thinking, before giving his final answer, at first he wasn't very sure about it, but eventually he gave in, "Very well Hendrik, come with me to the my residence, we can plan things out there, if you have anyone you want to bring along as well tell him to come, I can wait."

Syrduria, Ryeongse, and Brelogne

Straulechen

The Proposal of Ulmefurt - Part 1
Post with Syrduria

Airmanreik sighed a relief as the hills of the low country gave way to the lush valley of Gelbau-Trübenach; its landscape still beautiful, even in this time of year, he thought, as he stiffened his posture. The riding had been hard on his bones, yet he moved with due haste, never letting his men, nor his sons feel his pain he endured while on this march. Perhaps it would do him well, help his condition, breathe in this fresh air, yet the Palsgrave thought little of such a miracle. Nor was he here for any such miracle; he was here to protect the realm, ensure its continuation for his children, and so on till the Greatest decided to end its existence.

He breathed uneasily, as the cold breeze shifted around his body. The aging Palsgrave wore a thick riding robe, made of thick black fur that draped down to his ankles, while underneath simply wearing a linen shirt, and a pair of thick breaches. Atop his head sat a hat of fur, which could often be found in places in the north, like that of their Iskrenist brothers, Riddenheim.

Behind the aging Airmanreik, rode two of his three sons. The elder Leudbold, stiff in posture, alike to his father, tried to hold an aura of confidence about him. Yet he sat uneasy inside his saddle, his small frame giving him trouble atop such a powerful warhorse. Still, he did not complain, nor show any open discomfort towards his situation, merely standing tall, as he tread behind his father. He wore a red shirt of linen atop of a white houppelande, trimmed in brown fur of a bear, that draped to his ankles. He wore a simple, but ornate belt of black, tightened around his slender waist and wore breeches of a soft brown, made of hemp. Resting atop his head sat a green chaperon that protected him from the harshness of the season, with a matching pair of olive-colored gloves.

Next to Leudbold rode the tall and handsome Heinrik. His blondish hazel hair was cut short, yet still long enough in length to move softly with the breeze. He rode well, as he had always done since he was a boy of six, but his posture was one far more relaxed than his brother. He often made small talk with passerbys upon their journey; especially to those of the opposite gender, that drove his father to near madness. He wore a shirt of greenish brown made of linen, with a simple hunters doublet of black overtop. He wore a brown belt, where a small ornate knife sat safely tucked away, in case of danger, but mainly for show. His hose were a color alike to the Black Bay, which sucked in the sun. Over all this he wore a thick robe of deer hide, which fit well on his muscled posture.

He’d brought both in the hopes of them learning of their homeland’s blight, but also hoped to introduce them to the other lords of the land, as men, instead of the boys they had once been. Yet, he felt uneasy bringing them on this course, where failure could mean losing everything, but what other course was left, what road led to peace, he did not know. All he knew was the actions taken today could either save his home, or be another nail into its coffin; he would likely not see the conclusion of either.

Airmanreik turned his attention beside him, remembering he did in fact share this road with an old friend and competitor, Prince Konrad, his brother by marriage.

Prince Konrad rode alongside Airmanreik, a lofty air of authority surrounding him, as he sat atop his steed with a proud posture, and even prouder face. There was a somewhat displeasing look to the Prince’s whole appearance—his round head was covered by a short head of dark hair, his face was soft, and whenever he spoke his plain features contorted into an ugly little expression that would sometimes cling on long after he had grown silent. His right hand clutched firmly onto the reins of his horse, which he would start fiddling with when bored, while his left hand was left to its own devices. When he was speaking, which was often, he would use his left to make wild gestures, while when he was not, it would rest upon the neat pommel of his sword.

The Prince wore a large brown robe with fur trim, which reached down from his shoulders to his ankles, a modest garment, though not uncommon. Atop his head rested a small fur hat in the shape of a bag, and his feet were covered by small leather shoes, which were lined with small cuts that revealed the fine hose below. The whole attire of the Prince was not flamboyant in the slightest, but he acted as if it was. He sat atop his chestnut horse with a proud posture, and was always received by his servants and pages with the greatest of deference.

The Prince had not accepted his brother-in-law’s call without hesitation. There were affairs in his own lands that called for deliberation, and he did not enjoy dwelling on the awful war to his south. Yet dwell he must. His Principality of Gelbau-Kotzburg was a mere stone's throw away from Obersrath, the seat of the Syrdish army. Indeed, it had only been a few months since the forces of two of his neighbours—the Count of Halbenstein and the Landgrave of Eltenhof—had crossed his territory into Korbek, only to be soundly defeated by Duke Martyn’s pack of ravenous dogs. That battle had served as somewhat of a wake-up call to him, as it had to Airmanreik. No longer could he simply ignore the conflict in the south, but he did not wish to throw his arms with the Syrds or the League. Like he did with his garments and clothing, he favoured a more modest approach.

Airmanreik gripped his reins with his right hand, as he softly held onto his stomach with his left, each movement and shake causing him discomfort. He sighed, as his attention turned to Konrad, “Who do you think will heed our call for talks?” He asked, uncertain of who could be waiting for them, if anyone at all. Truth is, the Hallish had become increasingly isolated in their fears of the Syrd invasion, communication among their peers becoming less and less common.

Konrad turned his gaze to meet Airmanreik’s, a strange expression crossing his face. Having been calmly observing the landscape only to be interrupted by Airmanreik, he now calmly pondered over what to say. As his thoughtful expression began to fade, he opened his mouth to speak.

“My cousin Prince Frederick has graciously agreed to host us at Ulmefurt Castle, and promised that he too would try to gather support for the meeting. Though I would not be too hopeful. Halland’s mood has been turned sour by this war. Many have thought it better to cower in their castles than speak out against this grave strife.” He mulled.

“Cravens.” He mumbled, as he shook his head with discontent. “It’s those who cower in fear that drive our kingdom to ruin, that drive the Hallish into more chaos. Do they truly not realize the importance of banding together in these times, not to raise arms, but to raise spirits and protect ourselves? Do none care, this is the greatest strife our people have faced since the Harrying of 157.”

“Those who cower would rather lounge around with their wealth than march out to settle the injustices of the land are the greatest threat to our realm. With all these great harryings, it makes a good Iskrenist man think. That business with the mages, and that resurgent emperor, not to mention the terrible conflict with those sea-men. All in less than fifty years. What terrible troubles The Greatest places upon us…Iskren’s name. Can we have no peace?” Lamented Konrad, his face against twisting into that strange expression, as he made the sign of The Greatest and pressed it to his lips.

He nodded to himself, saddened by the thought of the world that he has lived through, “Peace is always unlikely when weak men lead us, brother. But remember, there have been good times too, not only suffering. We can’t be absorbed by despair, not for us, but for the sake of our children and their children, Greatest willing.” He said, gesturing to his two sons, as he then continued.

“If no one else heeds our call, it matters little, as our mission is set into motion by the will of the Greatest himself.” He said with self righteousness, though not firmly believing his own words. “Greatest willing, today will set into motion the end of this war and if not, the Greatest deems we take up the sword, and set His Will back into motion.”

“Aye, His Will be done!” Proclaimed Konrad. “Only He knows what lies in store for us, and where our fates shall lead us. If today shall not bring peace, then by St. Alvar’s name we will have to restore order in Halland by other means. I will make a prayer for peace today, before the meeting.”

“Aye! His Will demand it! St. Alvar guide us! Greatest lead us!” Heinrik yelled, throwing his sword up high, shortly echoed by six or seven men-at-arms behind them, who raised their arms and banners in victory.

Airmanreik nodded with a small smile, as he breathed in slowly, the excitement of the day filling his body, “Greatest willing.” He whispered to himself, as Heinrik rode towards his uncle.

“Uncle, do you believe, if the Greatest Wills it, and we ride off for war,” he said uneasy, his eyes darting his silent father. “Will the other lords follow us to defend the realm? Does their cravenness fill their hearts so tightly that they would truly ignore a war which could uproot our people entirely? End Halland in its entirety?” He asked.

“If The Greatest Wills it, then we can only pray that the rest of Halland joins us in our fight. Some may cower, but when the Syrds start throwing around threats of seizing Hallish lands, they will take up arms as well. If it ever comes to that. The willfully ignorant will brush off the Syrdish threat as long as they know that their good estates are in safe hands. When such a matter comes into question, the tides may change.”

A horn blared in the distance. Turning his eyes away from the youthful Heinrik, Prince Konrad locked his gaze into the far off horizon. As his and Airmanreik’s procession came to a crossroads, a few fluttering banners were spotted on the road to their right. As they came closer and closer into view, a small company of riders and knights appeared before Airmanreik and Konrad. One of the riders at the vanguard kicked his horse to a quick gallop, clearly wishing to greet the nobles first. Approaching the group and attracting the attention of the nobles, he stopped before reaching the crossroads.

The man was dressed in a fanciful suit of plate armour, which was fluted and lined with a small gold flourish. He held his sallet in his hands, having clearly just removed it, as his brown hair was ruffled and messy. He had a firm expression on his face, and his brow was furrowed, yet his face relaxed as he looked the procession up and down. His lips curled into a somewhat confused but nonetheless joyful smile, as he motioned for the rest of his procession to catch up. Running his hand through his hair in order to keep appearances, he prepared to speak.

“Hail thee! I would hate to be so brazen, but who are you gentlemen? I recognise one of your banners, and it is not one that I would deem to be friendly.” He spoke, casting a quick glance to Prince Konrad’s banner, which fluttered in the cold wind of that morning. One of the members of the unfamiliar noble’s procession rode up to his side, carrying the man’s own banner, which stood opposite of Konrad’s.

Airmanreik, his face unmoving, rode up, before stopping eight feet from the rider, closely followed behind by one of his men, banner in hand. Airmanreik looked the man up and down, neither recognizing the man, nor caring to dwell on his arms held by the man beside him, “Hail, Sir.” He said in a disregardful tone, as he gestured to his standard, “I am Palsgrave Airmanreik of Straulechen, and this, as you know, is Prince Konrad of Gelbau-Kotzburg.” He added, gesturing to his standard. “We ride under the invitation of the good Prince, Frederick, who I presume you pay homage to?” He said, though in a questionable tone, unsure of the man’s origin or place in the Prince’s household.

The unfamiliar noble’s smirk vanished, and a somewhat embarrassed expression became drawn across his face. Looking Airmanreik up and down, he was cowed by his presence, and fiddled nervously with the reins of his horse, as he turned to the members of his procession. Some muttering and mumbling was heard among them, before the noble turned again to Airmanreik and Prince Konrad. Konrad had been observing the situation with a keen eye the whole time, his eyes fixed to the unfamiliar noble’s banner, which flickered back and forth.

“Ah.” Muttered the unfamiliar man, his eyes darting between Airmanreik and Konrad. “I did not know my liege had invited Your Grace.” He said, turning to Prince Konrad, before addressing both him and Airmanreik, his confidence building. “You must forgive me for my brashness, Your Graces, I did not mean to threaten. It seems that His Will thought it wise for us two to meet, a fortuitous occurrence to be sure, for we both march to the same destination. I should make an introduction of my own, then. I am Baron Jan Ernest of Tulpensbülh, Marshall of Gelbau-Trübenach. You walk on my lands, at least for now, though when we cross the nearby river we will have passed into His Grace’s estate.” He said, his tone relaxing and easing with each passing word, as he grew more comfortable around the men. “I must say I was caught in quite a hurry by all this. Just a week ago I was at Trübenach, overseeing the city’s defences, and just now I had to settle a matter in my own lands, which was dealt with.” Boasted the baron, as he sought to flatter himself in the eyes of Airmanreik and Konrad. “If you please, you may carry on the way to Ulmefurt Castle, and I will follow behind with my own procession.”

Airmanreik nodded, mostly uninterested, as he gestured for them to be welcomed into their growing band of riders, “It’s good to meet a kind soul in these dark days, Baron Ernest of Tulpensbülh. Greatest bless you for your kindness in letting us pass by unmolested through your lands.” Armanreik said, before gently nudging his stallion forward, as the party of men continued on.

As the procession of Konrad and Airmanreik moved forward, Jan Ernest and his entourage followed behind, as the baron conversed with his servants and men. Prince Konrad cast a bitter look, as he kicked his horse to a trot. His eyes glanced towards Airmanreik before he turned his head back to see Baron Jan Ernest, who laughed with his men, a merry appearance overtaking him. The bitter look again crossed Prince Konrad’s face, and as he turned back to see Airmanreik riding along quietly, he felt it just to say something.

“A word of warning to you, dear brother. You’ll find no decency in Jan Ernest.” He complained, using his brother-in-law as a person to whom he could express his grievances. “Oh I’ve sparred with him many a times, and each encounter has been…a bitter one. No different from his father I tell you! They are climbers, dear brother, climbers…who don’t know their status. Old Baron Albrecht was just the same. Married my dear cousin’s aunt, and used that as a key to get what he could. A shame my dear cousin thought he’d be of some value to the meeting, because he won’t, and I can promise you that.”

Airmanreik nodded along, as his dearest brother listed his complaints, each moment growing pains in his stomach, yet held himself high. “Brother,” he began, as he shifted his uneasy gaze to Konrad, “You know I support your claims, and even marched in a shared banner to press it, but please do not alienate a potential voice of reason when they could become a valued ally to our cause.” He said, pausing, as he came to a slower trot. “Listen, I do not ask you to forgive, nor would I ask you to forget the wrongs that have befallen your family, either by the hands of this man, or his father.” He said in a slightly hushed tone, as he nodded to himself. “I simply ask you to set aside your transgressions with this man and your cousin, for now, so we can have a future we can pass onto our children, your children, and even his.” He said, before mumbling to himself, “Hopefully this course we walk will leave our children to feud over these claims of ours, instead of leaving them with nothing but the former ash of their homes.”

“Bah! I would rather settle these conflicts now then have my children and their children continue to struggle over this. But you are right. To continue to hold these transgressions, when greater matters stand before us, could only ruin everything that we have worked for. Our lands and families stand in potential jeopardy, and if I was to continue to press this dispute while the Syrds still ravage Korbek, I would be no better than the curs who cower behind their castles and claim themselves to be loyalists.”

“Aye.” Airmanreik said in agreement, as they continued on, happy to have the matter settled for the moment.

The cantering of a horse was heard behind the two men, and turning his face to the back, Prince Konrad saw the Baron Jan Ernest approaching him. Joining the two men, Jan Ernest stroked his beard in a proud fashion, as he cast glances at Airmanreik and Konrad. The Prince tried to hide his irritated manner, but his strange expression betrayed his thoughts, though that only delighted Jan Ernest more, as he seemed to have taken an enjoyment in annoying the old man. Deciding to begin a conversation, the baron turned again to his two counterparts, with a bright face and smile.

“I’ve decided that I should ride alongside Your Graces, as three equals. I should say that when my liege informed me of all this, I thought it somewhat…irksome. While our brothers in Korbek, Halbenstein and Eltenhof fight the Syrdish menace with a great and proper enthusiasm, my liege decides to hold meetings in castles? Yet I will not protest. Both me and my father understand the necessity of the quill in times like these. If we had to turn to the sword at every available path, this land would know no peace.”

Airmanreik snorted, as they rode for a moment in silence, “Your liege is wise beyond his years for his steadfast patience, as are all the Hallish who set aside their swords, for that of a quill.” He said, as he postured himself to be slightly more imposing, “I will not belittle the merit of our kin who have taken up the blade, but I shall never disregard those who have the patience to watch and seek out a better path, as the Greatest would so desire. Nor should any man look down upon men who seek peace, instead of war, when the chance arises.”

He sighed, as he rode, “I know some, no, many among us wish to take the sword. They do so in good merit, but a steady hand can see our Halland prosper as it has for decades.” He said, before pausing, as he clinched his stomach, “If the right men take it upon themselves to see it that way.”

Jan Ernest, who had stopped listening to the conversation soon after Airmanreik had rebuted him, gave a visibly bright expression when he realised that the Palsgrave had gone silent. Turning again to his supposedly equal peers, he mulled over what to say, wanting to keep the conversation going, even if he wasn’t particularly interested in hearing the responses of his counterparts. “I have heard that His Grace Prince-Prelate Jan of Kesselburg will be attending. He is my liege’s uncle, and thus a distant cousin of yours, isn’t he Konrad?” He informed the two, his eyes turning to Prince Konrad as he awaited an answer from the bitter prince.

Prince Konrad’s mood soured for a brief second, as he recalled the disputes of years past over that Prince-Prelatecy, and how he and his cousin had sparred to place their candidates on the throne. Jan Ernest, as always, had been present in that conflict, and it was clear that he enjoyed rubbing in his past victories in his rival’s face.

“That he is.” Mumbled Prince Konrad, praying for some relief away from the conversation.

“I am interested in what he has to say.” Said Jan Ernest, cutting off Konrad from saying anymore. “He has not taken the Syrdish invasion well, I hear.”

Airmanreik sighed, as he cared little for the opinions or happenings of the Prince-Prelate. The man had been half responsible for an incursion into his own lands almost a decade ago now, which saw parts of his lands ravaged by unpaid Syrds. The Prince-Prelate had purchased them with silver he took from Greatest knows where, but stopped paying them upon the conclusion of whatever conflict he had stirred, leaving them in his county, unpaid, and starving for riches. Airmanreik gripped his reins tightly as he recalled the great unrest those brigands stirred throughout his lands for nearly two years, only ending upon a fierce storming of their camp, costing him valuable resources.

“I am sure the Prince-Prelate will offer sound, even excellent consul on our predicament.” Airmanreik forced himself to mutter, not wishing to offend the Baron, who clearly fancies the Prince.

Hearing Airmanreik’s words, a delighted expression crossed the Baron’s face, as he was pleased by Airmanreik’s approval of the Prince-Prelate. He did indeed fancy the man, though not out of personal affection. He had fought with his liege for Jan’s right to the Prince-Prelatecy and since then Jan had been a good ally of the Baron. “My younger brother Dietrich is a priest at Kesselburg, and a faithful servant of Prince-Prelate Jan. He’d make a good successor to the man, and I know Jan would not disagree.” Boasted Jan Ernest, making his familial ambitions clear to the two men, as he gloated at the possibility of his brother succeeding to the Prince-Prelatecy.

Airmanreik rolled his eyes visibly at the words of the Baron, his ambition far too bold for the older man’s liking, “Yes, well only the Greatest knows these things, and Greatest’s Blessing, Prince-Prelate Jan will linger with us for decades more.” Airmanreik said, greatly bothered by the Baron’s open ambition, “All I know is the Prince-Prelatecy will fall into the hands of the rightful owner, Greatest Willing.” He said, ending the discussion, as he nudged his stallion to move at a hastened pace.

Noticing Airmanreik to be riding at a faster pace, Prince Konrad followed suit and so did Baron Jan Ernest, who was eager to not fall behind his two peers. The calm breeze of the morning wind had before served as music to the procession, but after a while of silence, Baron Jan Ernest called for his two trumpeters, who at once let out a quick fanfare, before being followed by the rest of the musicians of Jan Ernest’s procession. They played a commonly played Hallish tune, famous throughout the country. Konrad called to his own musicians, who joined in with their own instruments, the shared melody of the trumpeters forming an air of music around the procession, which kept with them as they marched.

The low lying country and quaint valleys of the area produced a great charm on the men, even to Jan Ernest, who despite having likely passed through his land thousands of times, did not seem to tire of its picturesque scenery. The rolling plains were dotted occasionally by a small forest, and the grassy fields themselves were sometimes decorated with fields of rose red poppies and other assortment of flowers. Small farmhouses, windmills and other peasant buildings gave a human quality to it all, while the creeks and streams that the procession passed by at times were alive with energy, as they let off a babbling sound.

Passing a small stone bridge, Jan Ernest eventually called out to the others that they were approaching the destination. Having memorized the land since childhood, he had served as a sort of navigator for the procession, uselessly calling out the names of villages and forests, which he proudly knew by heart. Nevertheless he had led them towards Ulmefurt Castle, which stood past another small river. The castle itself was not particularly grand, but it served its purpose as a countryside escape for Prince Frederick quite well. It was a red brick castle, typical of the new Hallish style, lined with a timber frame and adorned with a great number of large windows. Blue step-gables lined the edge of the roof, which was of the same colour. Two octagonal towers on the flanks of the castle, topped with lofty blue spires, towered over the land, striking a menacing pose. Finally, there was a smaller building that sat by the river, and its style marked itself out as a quaint chapel.

Airmanreik smiled at the familiar sight before him, from a long time ago. He’d spent two, maybe even three warm summers here when he had almost still been a boy. He had fond memories of playing with his brothers and sisters, or riding with Frederick and his brothers and cousins. How times had changed, how they had all changed, he thought. He smirked to himself however, as the small chapel had not changed, Greatest, he hoped it never would.

He turned his body, and gestured for his party to dismount, taking a moment before stepping onto the ground, his body tight from the cold, but mainly from the jolts of pain up his spine. He handed his reins to one of his stable hands, before beginning the short march to what seemed to be a small group of men. Leudbold and Heinrik followed shortly behind, along with four other minor nobles who had come along in the procession. Leudbold stopped by his uncle, offering to him the man down, with his hand.

Prince Konrad took the young man’s hand eagerly, dismounting his horse slowly and carefully, in stark contrast to Jan Ernest, who jumped onto the ground with an energetic vigour. Konrad gave a quick grunt and ‘och’ as Leudbold helped him down. Once he had dismounted, he walked over to Airmanreik’s side and led the procession from there, coming to the bridge that passed over the small river. A small group of men-at-arms awaited them on the other side, wide and cheery smiles on their faces, as they watched the group of colourful men approach. The leader of that group, a man in fancy plate armour and without his sallet, gave a small nudge to one of the men in his group, whispering something in his ear. The young man-at-arms immediately set off at full speed towards the castle, while the leader of the group turned his gaze to the procession before him.

“Ah! Sir Arnulf! It has been a while since we last crossed paths!” Greeted Baron Jan Ernest, walking past the bridge to extend a warm hand of welcome to the man-at-arms, who reciprocated it readily.

“Too long Jan, too long…” He said, before withdrawing and turning his attention to Airmanreik and Prince Konrad. Jan Ernest turned his gaze to them too, and wanting to be the man who made the introductions, began speaking again.

“This my dear friend is His Grace, Palsgrave Airmanreik of Straulechen, who you no doubt have heard of, and Prince Konrad needs no introduction I’m sure! Your Graces, this is Sir Arnulf von Möhnsau.” He laughed. Sir Arnulf bowed to Konrad and Airmanreik respectively, curtsying to them before rising back to his former posture.

“Your Graces! My liege Prince Frederick will greet you soon, I’m sure.”

Airmanreik smiled at the handsome man-at-arms, nodding his head shortly, as he stepped forward, “Let us have proper greetings, Sir Arnulf.” He said, with a grin, as he went to shake the man’s hand, gesturing for him to take it. “Why does your name sound familiar, was your father someone I was familiar with?” He asked.

“Ah yes my father, you might’ve indeed known him, though I’m not sure from what connection. He was Sir Eberhard von Möhnsau. He fought during the great struggles of the early century, and rode with King Heinrik in those years. His father, my dear grandpapa, peace be upon him, was Baron Ludolf von Möhnsau. He too fought in those great struggles, even as age began to get the better of him.” Explained Sir Arnulf, extending a hand to greet Airmanreik as if they were family.

Airmanreik grinned, as he brought his other hand into the shake, before chuckling, “By the Greatest, what a small world. Your father rode in the vanguard with me, as we set fire to those northern bush burning fire throwers with the Good King Heinrik!” He laughed hard, as he turned to Konrad, gesturing for him to come forward and greet the young Sir, “This lad is one of Sir Eberhard’s boys, you remember, the good man who fought with us at Häjoszód, the one where that witch tried to slay the Good King!” He said grinning, as he grabbed the young man’s shoulder like a father would a son.

Prince Konrad’s face curled into that familiar wide smile, which distorted his features somewhat, but nonetheless gave him an amiable appearance. He shook Sir Arnulf’s hand as well, his face bright with excitement and nostalgia, as he recalled the battles of the past, the fond memory of Sir Eberhard passing through his mind. “A fine lad he was, yes, a fine lad! And a good Iskrenist too, at that! Always with either the Book of the Prophet in his hand, or a sword when he was out in battle!” He proclaimed, his voice bursting into laughter, which quickly infected the whole crowd, as they too let out chuckles and began chortling. Sir Arnulf was laughing too, the memories of his dear father still close in his heart and mind.

Prince Konrad’s gaze turned to the castle again, as he saw a crowd exit through one of its doors. The group was headed by a man dressed in a fine red shirt, his arms and shoulders covered by a great fur cloak. He was flanked on his left by a man dressed in a great black robe, decorated with a yellow floral pattern, while his head was topped with a simple white fur hat, which rested comfortably above the man’s hair. On his right, meanwhile, was a young woman dressed in a long gold dress. Like the head of the group, she wore a fur cloak over her arms and shoulders, which drooped down to her ankles. Approaching the bridge, the head of the group came to a stop, and called out to the crowd on the bridge.

“Come now, Sir Arnulf, let them pass the river, there’s no need to fear!” Said the head of the group, and at once the handsome man-at-arms led Airmanreik and the rest of the crowd past the bridge, motioning the procession forward. Airmanreik, Prince Konrad and Jan Ernest were gathered before the other crowd, and after a brief moment of silence, Jan Ernest’s face broke into a large smile, as he reached out with open arms to greet the head of the crowd before him. Like before, he had been the first to welcome the man.

“Your Grace! Ah, my dear cousin!” He greeted, embracing the head of the crowd, who was Prince Frederick and holding him tightly for a while. He turned to the man dressed in the long black robe, Prince-Prelate Jan, and bowed before him in a great cursty, making the sign of The Greatest as he did so. He then turned to the lady in the gold dress, Prince Frederick’s daughter, greeting her just as warmly as he had greeted the head of the crowd. After he had done this, he withdrew back to the group where Airmanreik and Prince Konrad were, waiting for them to make the greetings as well.

Airmanreik stepped forward, only stopping for a moment to take a short bow towards the Prince, before smiling, as he reached forward to embrace the man, “Your Grace, it’s been far too long!” He proclaimed with a grin, as the two embraced one another. Airmanreik nodded, as he then bowed his head towards Lady Sophia, “You look as charming as ever my dearest.” He said, before turning to the familiar Prince-Prelate.

He bowed quickly to show respect, but merely greeted the man with a hand shake, before turning back to Prince Frederick, “My wife sends her greetings and wishes she could have come along, but alas, she mourns for my cousin’s son, and has decided she would ride out and try and comfort the poor thing.” He explained, with a hint of sadness, before turning around entirely, as he gestured to his two sons he had brought along.

“You remember my eldest, Leubold.” He said, smiling, as the slender boyish man approached, “and the younger, Heinrik, named after the good king, as you remember.” He said, clearly proud of the name even still. Leudbold and Heinrik both did their greetings, Heinrik lingering onto Sophia, before nearly being dragged by his elder brother back to their fathers side.

“It is a good day when I can greet you with open arms, Airmanreik.” Said Frederick, smiling, his thoughts turning to the recent disputes, before he looked to the Palsgrave’s sons, his face visibly beaming at how they had grown. “A shame that Lady Katrina could not come, but I am grateful for you bringing your sons. I have long sought to see how they have grown, and grown they have! Ah, Leudbold, you look like a fine ruler! And Heinrik! You look just about ready to face Duke Martyn’s army on the field!” Commented Prince Frederick, as he sized each of the sons up and down. Once he had done so, he turned to Prince Konrad, who had not yet greeted any of them.

Konrad stepped forward, his gaze meeting Prince Frederick’s. There was an air of silence between them as they stood, each reminiscent of their past struggles with each other. Yet now was not the time to linger on such squabbles. Treating his former foe as family (and he was indeed family), Prince Konrad’s lips curled into a grin, as he extended a hand to Prince Frederick. Frederick took the hand eagerly and then turned it into an embrace.

“Dear cousin, we should be meeting more often like this, rather than…well…you know.” He welcomed warmly, a tinge of awkwardness in his voice.

“Indeed, dear cousin, indeed. It is a shame that it takes a whole army of Syrds to have us meet in friendly circumstances. Shall we not next time greet each other as good Iskrenists, and shake hands like the old times?” Remarked Konrad.

“That we shall Konrad! That we shall…” Exclaimed Frederick, his face lit up by his cousin’s friendliness. Konrad then turned to the Prince-Prelate, and bowed before him, making the sign of The Greatest as Jan Ernest had. At last he turned to Lady Sophia, his eyes widening as he saw how much she had grown. The Lady had been in a state of kneeling in respect since the beginning, but Konrad soon set her straight.

“Will you not rise, My Lady, so that I may greet you as family?” He said in a friendly manner, and after a nudge from her father, Sophia rose and held Prince Konrad in a warm embrace. “You’ve grown, My Lady.” Informed Konrad as he smiled.

“She’s set to be married, you know!” Announced Prince Frederick. The sudden declaration caught Konrad by surprise, and there was a burst of laughter from Frederick, happy that he had given his dear cousin quite a shock.

“Then I must offer my felicitations!” Congratulated Konrad, who held Sophia in a tight embrace yet again.

Airmanreik threw his hands in a gleeful surprise, as he bowed his head once more, “My dearest Lady, may I be among the first to wish you congratulations! This is simply excellent news, the Greatest truly provides joys in times of strife.” He proclaimed, making the sign of the Greatest quickly, as he gestured for his sons to congratulate the young Lady.

“It’s wonderful news my Lady, I can only imagine how thrilled you could be” He said, bowing his head as a sign of respect, before following his father in performing the sign.

Heinrik looked puzzled for a moment, almost saddened that he lost his chance with the fine Lady, but bowed, with a short smile, “The groom is a very lucky man, my dearest Lady. I wish you many happy years together, Greatest Willing.” He said, before producing the sign of the Greatest alike to his father and brother.

“I suppose I should ask who the lucky groom is.” Said Konrad, a curious expression flashing across his face, as his eyes darted between Sophia and Prince Frederick, waiting to see who would respond first.

“That would be Krysztof of Morytz. You don’t know him, I’m sure, though perhaps the family name will ring a bell. His father is Count Lászlo of Morytz, the Syrdish noble.” Informed Prince Frederick, evidently taking great pride in the announcement of his daughter’s engagement. There was some muttering and mumbling at the mention of the Syrdish noble, even if many didn’t know who he was. Konrad remained joyful at the news nevertheless, and again offered his congratulations to the Lady Sophia.

Heinrik began to mumble something, but Leudbold gestured for him to remain silent, as he nodded with a smile, “Wonderful, for even in war, there is pleasant news for all to hear for both Hallish and Syrdish.” He said, almost reminding his brother it was not his place to question their distant kins marriage, even if it was with a Syrd.

Airmanreik nodded in agreement towards his son’s words, “Aye, the Morytz are fine and sturdy people, who serve the Will of the Greatest well.” He said, not wishing to continue to dwell on the issue of the dear girl marrying a Syrd, as he would hate for one of his less prudent nobles in his party to say something offensive.

A brief silence fell upon the two crowds, but Prince Frederick, sensing some uneasiness at the mention of the Syrdish noble and the marriage, was quick to change the subject. His eyes turning to the quaint chapel nearby, and his face litting up as if he had just remembered something, he turned to the group, a widening smile on his face. “You all arrived at a perfect time, I must say. I and the rest of us here were just about to say our prayers. I’m sure you would all care to join us? A good rest by saying our mind to The Greatest shall do us much good.” He proposed, assured that the offer would be accepted.

Prince Konrad and Jan Ernest nodded eagerly, and mutterings of agreement were heard throughout the men. Without even spending a second longer, Frederick waved his hand around and motioned the grand crowd to follow him to the chapel, which they did. Prince-Prelate Jan and Baron Jan Ernest were quick to make it to Prince Frederick’s side, chatting with the Prince about inconsequential matters, while Prince Konrad and Plagrave Airmanreik lagged behind.

Rolais, Corcaigh mor, Chirenai, Namalar, and 3 othersSyrduria, Ryeongse, and Windstaat

The Proposal of Ulmefurt - Part II
Post with Straulechen

The chapel, like the castle that stood by it, was built in the same brick style. Lined with a thin wooden frame, and topped with a decorative blue spire, it was adorned with long stained windows that served as a most colourful decoration. The crowd were led inside, and it was clear that it was a tight fit. Men shuffled and huddled together, sitting down on the rows of pews. Prince Frederick sat in the front, followed by the other nobles of importance, among them Jan Ernest, Prince Konrad, and Airmanreik. Further back were men and men of less consequence. Lady Sophia took a seat behind her father, adopting a solemn stance of prayer as she waited for the ceremony to begin.

Leudbold took a position beside Lady Sophia, and slightly behind his father, as he bent his head downwards, he began to murmur phrases in Kostuan. Heinrik decided he would simply take a seat near the rear end of the chapel with some of the lesser or minor courtiers and nobles attending mass, ending up beside Sir Arnulf, the pair making short greetings, before likewise, beginning to recite a small prayer in broken Kostuan, the young man never properly learning it in his youth.

“I think it would be wise if you would lead the ceremony, uncle.” Said Prince Frederick to the Prince-Prelate, who looked at his nephew with a proud look. Rising from the seat he had taken, the Prince-Prelate walked humbly to the podium in the front of the chapel, before turning back to the crowd, who waited for him to begin the liturgy. Firstly, he made the sign of The Greatest, which was repeated by everyone in the room. Soon after he muttered a phrase in Kostuan, which too was repeated, before he fell silent again. Then, he spoke. Though in his sixties, the Prince-Prelate’s frail voice still resonated throughout the chapel, as he made it heard to everyone in the building.

“O Lord, accept these prayers that we offer before you now. We humbly ask that you receive our words with mercy, and forgive us for our transgressions, our sins, and our vices. Thus, let it be so.” He said in Hallish. The phrase was the opener to the ceremony, and usually said in the native tongue of the preacher. Yet now the rite had commenced, and with the Prince-Prelate’s motion, the chapel broke into prayers, as they recited the first song in Kostuan. The Prince-Prelate led them through all this as a shepherd would, his frail voice still the loudest among them, as he sang solemnly. It lasted for a long, drawn-out minute, until the chapel fell silent again.

Then the Prince-Prelate took the stage once more, making the sign of The Greatest and reciting another phrase in Kostuan alone. Then began the second prayer, as the sound of a holy song again filled the chapel. It went like this for five more songs, with the Prince-Prelate reciting a phrase in between each of the prayers. When all the songs had finished, the chapel fell into silence again, as each man whispered their own personal prayer. Some did not speak at all, saying their words to The Greatest silently.

Airmanreik prayed for his cousin, hoping she could find some sort of comfort in the embrace of the Greatest in this time of strife. Even more emotionally, he begged him to show mercy on him and his wife, his countrymen, and his sons, who he held so dear. He made the sign of the Greatest, as he pressed his lips to the sign. He then gestured in a bowed head towards the depiction of St. Alvar, as he whispered a prayer asking to guide those who lift the sword in the name of the Greatest. He mumbled one last phrase in Kostuan, asking the Sage to redeem their lost kinsmen, before ending his prayer with one last gesture as he lifted both hands, head down, before finishing, saying in Kostuan, “His Will Guide Us.”

Many had recited similar prayers, wishing the best for their loved ones, or for the troublesome war in the south that long lingered on their minds. Prince Konrad prayed for the well-being of his family, Prince Frederick did the same. Baron Jan prayed for the safety and health of his lands and the people he ruled, while Lady Sophia prayed for her soon-to-be husband, who had long been on her mind, though she had not met him. What if he was called to fight in the Syrdish army down south? That would be awful indeed.

Lifting his head from the ground, and turning his gaze to the crowd before him, Prince-Prelate Jan continued with the ceremony. He picked up from the altar a chalice of water, which had been placed there by the servant boys beforehand, and making the sign of The Greatest, he dipped his two fingers into the water and pressed them to his forehead, before reciting another quick prayer in Kostuan, that was repeated by the crowd. Descending from the podium, he walked up to Prince Frederick and offered him the cup. Like the Prince-Prelate, Frederick dipped his fingers into the cup before pressing them to his forehead, then making the same prayer in Kostuan, which was repeated by the crowd. It went on like these for everyone, as the Prince-Prelate passed around the chalice. The same prayer resonated throughout the chapel again and again, as each man and woman recited it, and the crowd repeated it. Eventually, the chalice had been passed to everyone, and only then did the Prince-Prelate declare the prayers to be over, as he recited the closing phrase.

Having finished their prayers, the crowd began to exit the chapel. Rising from their seats, Prince Frederick and the other men of high standing were the first to leave, followed by their children like Sophia and Airmanreik, and then followed lastly by the other men and boys of the procession: servant pages, squires, and the baron or lowly noble that had been at Prince Frederick’s household before Airmanreik’s arrival. Leaving the quaint little church, they were treated to a pleasant scene. The nearby trees of the castle gardens swung to and fro in the noon wind, while the sun shone high in the sky, its rays of golden light peering through the occasional cloud, though the pale blue sky remained mostly unblemished.

“A fine morning, and noon as well!” Proclaimed Prince Frederick, a delighted expression crossing his face as he took in the fresh air of the day. “Well, I say we should waste no time! Let’s speak, and let’s feast! The men have prepared a fine meal for you all, a fine meal indeed. The best meats in the land, I’d say. Prince-Prelate Jan already had a taste…” He laughed, as he motioned for one of his man-at-arms to open the door to the castle, which he did. Entering the castle, he was followed by the crowd, who shuffled and mumbled as they were funneled into a narrow, but nonetheless comfortable corridor.

The inside walls of the castle were lined with portraits and decorative murals that depicted moments from the family’s, to Halland’s and to Syrduria’s shared histories. The crowd passed one corridor that was lined with a long succession of murals that served as portraits for Frederick’s ancestors. They passed one after another, each of the ancestors holding a shield that depicted their coat of arms, which had the three roses of the Verstenfelds, a staple of the family, used by members from all over.

The crowd came to the main hall. In order to make room for the crowd and the feasts, the entire room had been stripped of its regular furniture, and replaced with three great tables, lined with chairs. Prince Frederick had not been lying—a great fast had been laid out on all the tables, consisting of mostly meat like venison and pork, but also pies and other popular dishes of Halland. Prince Frederick had not been lying about Prince-Prelate Jan having a taste, either—there was a dirty plate by one of the chairs, and Jan at once took his seat there, as he scoured the table to look for which food he should start to eat first. There was no wine, nor other kinds of alcohol laid out for the feast. Prince Frederick thought that such drinks should be reserved for dinner and late night meals only, for it would be sinful to drink wine at noon, and he had everyone adhere to this rule in his house quite strictly, as not even the servants were excused from it.

Frederick had taken great care in organising the noon meal, and the tables. He was seated with the important men like Airmanreik, Prince Konrad, Baron Jan, at the centre table, which was the most finely adorned. On the right side of that table were seated the less inconsequential men, but who were still nonetheless important, and their spouses. The table left of Frederick’s meanwhile, was to consist of the younger sons and daughters of the crowd—Lady Sophia, Leudbold and Heinrik, as well as some others, were all seated there. Finally, there was a much smaller table further away from the others, of no more than five seats. It was for the younger children, particularly Frederick’s two young sons and young daughter. They had already been seated there, and were halfway finished, being helped in their feasting by the maids of the castle.

Airmanreik grinned as he took a seat next to Prince Konrad, who had already begun to gaze at the food before them. Next he set his eyes on the spread before him as well, unsure what to eat, nor even what to drink. Prince Frederick’s habit of halting drink till the evening had long been a habit of his family, with even his father sharing the practice, if he recalled correctly. It had been painful as a young man not to enjoy ale after an afternoon’s hunt, but alas he dealt with it as a boy and would deal with it now as an old man.

Airmanreik took a piece of pork that looked good, its grease almost like that of an ornate bronze, smiling as he placed it upon his plate, “I must say, Frederick, you have out done yourself!” He said with a cheer.

A clamour took hold of Airmanreik and Frederick’s table, as the men around them, among them Prince Konrad, beat the table in approval of Airmanreik’s words, cheering Prince Frederick for the excellent feast that he had prepared. The Prince blushed and chuckled as he heard their praises, his face lighting up with excitement and delight, as he took to taking the first bitings of his meal. Frederick picked and chose almost at random, his hands reaching out to take a piece of duck one moment, before turning ravenously to a small pie, which he eagerly added to his plate. Prince Konrad ate in a similar manner, his eyes darting from piece of food to piece of food, as he was overwhelmed by all the choices available to him.

“I must apologise to you all for the lack of wine and other ales at this feast. As I’m sure some of you know,” Began Frederick, his eyes turning to Airmanreik, as he gave a sly smirk. “I have a certain rule when it comes to this, passed down from my father and his father before him. No drinks of that sort on meals before evening, you see. But here it is especially important. We have many important matters to discuss after this, and it would be wise if we discussed it in a sober mood, no?” He explained, laying out the benefits of his custom before the men of the table.

“Indeed!” Said Jan Ernest, laughing. “I think if we’d discussed this after I’d drank three cups of wine, I would’ve told you all to invade Syrduria with me at the lead!” Laughed the Baron, giving a burst of chuckling at his joke, which lasted for a while. The men laughed with him, though perhaps not as enthusiastically.

Airmanreik held onto his stomach, the talk of invasion stirring something unnatural within him, “Yes, well, Greatest Willing, there will be no invasion.” He said in a near whisper, as he took a small bite of his pork, before cutting a piece of a harsher portion, struggling for a moment, before finally cutting through its fat. He sighed at his own struggling, before reaching over to take a piece of bread and honey.

“So Frederick, I must ask, but how did you manage to cement such a betrothal in times such as these, with a Syrdish family, no less? Not to pry in personal affairs, I am simply curious.” He asked, as he smeared honey atop his bread, biting into it as it crunched.

“It had been in the works for quite some time, long before this mess with the Hallish League and the invasion. I believe we began discussing a betrothal some three years ago, I and the old Count Lászlo. He is, sadly, on his last legs if I recall correctly, but his son…ah, his son. Krysztof is a fine lad. I met him just a few months before that incident at Grafsburg. I travelled to his ancestral castle, a fine place. Of course this business with the recent war has complicated matters. The wedding was supposed to happen here in Gelbau-Trübenach but now with the Syrdish army just a stone’s throw away in Obersrath…well it might be more prudent for me to travel with Sophia to the Syrdish County.” Explained Prince Frederick, his expression saddening as he thought of the recent delays and complications to all the tireless planning he had been undertaking.

However, soon after Frederick’s face adopted a proud, almost boastful, expression, and he spoke again. “You might not know, but Krystzof Morytz and his father are cousins of His Highness King Karlus! Yes, it’s true. Krystzof is the…third cousin, second cousin once removed…something around that of His Highness. They’re both descended from King Fryderic I, who you may know to be Good King Heinrik’s grandfather.” He informed the crowd, his eyes darting from man to man as he observed their expressions. He let out a quick chuckle, his proud face still beaming as he expressed the fact that his daughter was marrying to a line with kingly blood.

Airmanreik nodded with a genuine smile, as he recalled the old King Fryderic, apparently having been quite the King, if the stories were true. “Good bloodline I’d say, if it produced men such as Good King Heinrik!” He said, chuckling to himself, as he took another bite of his pork, the former pains fading for a moment, as he remembered his youth. “Aye, I think it’s grand news, perhaps the grandest I have heard in some months.” He said, as he gestured towards his boys, “If these dark times hadn’t come, likely enough, these gentlemen would have been betrothed to some lucky lass, maybe even married.” He said, disappointed, as he had hoped to already have a grandchild as of this age, but this is how the Greatest planned it, and as such, who was he to complain. “But, dark times these are, and personally, I fear for their safety,” he said, before turning back to Frederick, “Though the Lady Sophia should be more than safe, not even the most rabid of men would dare lay a finger on; the Greatest simply wouldn’t allow such a thing.” He said, trying to not to disway his peer from his course with false fears he was plagued with, instead simply grinning, as he lifted his cup of water mixed with tart in good faith.

“Oh indeed, Airmanreik, indeed. Besides, I can assure you all that the recent war has brought no complications between me and Count Lászlo. He is a fine individual, and I think he has come to a certain understanding that this war brings neither Syrduria nor Halland any good. On another hand, it does appear that His Grace Duke Martyn is not the most…popular individual back in Syrduria. He is as hated there as he is here, if I’m correct.” Reassured Prince Frederick.

“Perhaps so,” Blurted Jan Ernest, his hot-headedness suddenly getting the better of hìm. “But the Syrdish nobles did give their assent to the invasion. And their Kiralstág, that governing body of theirs, gave its assent to fund the campaign recently as well! If Duke Martyn is so unpopular, and I do not mean to discredit your words, Your Grace,” He added quickly, not wanting to displease his liege, which he noticed that he might be doing, for an irritated expression crossed Prince Frederick’s face. “But…if Duke Martyn is so unpopular, then why do the Syrdish nobles continue to give their assent to this war! Is it cowardice?”

Airmanreik snorted, firstly at this upstart child voicing his thoughts, while interrupting his liege, but double so in his limited perspective in Syrdish politics, clearly not understanding the first thing of their distinct contracts, “The Syrdish nobles have no love for war, like we have no love for it likewise.” He responded sharply, as he began to continue, his hand moving towards his stomach. “Our peers in Syrduria are proud and loyal men, like us, who support their King, no matter how or what that King will do.” He said, pausing, as he tried to process his own thoughts, “The Syrds do not need to like Duke Martyn, but many feel it is their obligation to assist their liege, the young King Karlus, even if it’s over something as mundane and idiotic as our war, here in Halland.” He said, before nodding to himself, “For instance, Baron Jan, would you not raise your banner with your liege, Prince Frederick, even if he marched on a friend, a kinsmen? Wouldn’t many of us, in different circumstances march under our liege’s banner, even if it ill suited or displeased us? Or, Jan Ernst, would you neglect your promises, your oaths, in protest?” He asked, as he finished. “So, no, Baron, I do not believe the Syrds cowards, merely men following their duties.”

“Young King Karlus indeed.” Remarked Prince Konrad. “I’d rather have a Good King Heinrik than I would a Young King Karlus.” Chuckled the Prince, though there was a tone of somberness in his voice. His words provoked some laughter from the table, as well as a “hear, hear!”.

Jan Ernest squirmed under Airmanreik’s words, his face curling into a quick smile as he tried to keep his confidence, but each time the smile unraveled into an awkward and unsure expression, until finally he conceded. “I suppose you are correct in that. I would indeed march with my liege even if I had my own misgivings about it, though I suppose to a certain point. If Prince Frederick was to declare himself for the Namarian elves and attack Syrduria, I would have no choice but to put my foot down. But that is an absurd example, and I see your point.” He said curtly. “However, while I would march with my liege despite my own misgivings, I would not march without speaking my mind about the matter, as I’m sure His Grace knows.” He continued, pointing to Prince Frederick. “From what I’ve heard there’s been little protest from the Syrds against this. Besides, the Kiralstág serves as an instrument of the Syrdish nobility. If they are against this war, is it not completely in their right, even if they have certain military obligations…to deny His Highness the funds to continue the war?” Pondered Jan Ernest, believing that he had made quite an impressive rebuttal, though his words provoked no response from the others.

Airmanreik sighed with a grunt, as he leaned forward, gesturing to the young Baron, “Perhaps it is in their right, aye. Yet how many men would cut the King’s funds, if you will, while a rabid pack of dogs, called Duke Martyn’s army, sit outside their walls?” He said, allowing a moment’s pause, before continuing, “Yes, of course they could deny His Highness his dues, his funds, but where would that leave them? Where would that even leave us, Baron Jan? Thousands of unpaid soldiers in our lands, left with no fortunes in Syrduria, other than what they find here?” His eyes shifted towards the Prince-Prelate, growing disgusted by the familiarity of the whole thing. He shook his head, and pointed to the young Baron, “Even if they hate Duke Martyn, as we all do, they do us a favor in keeping his men on any form of leash. Without their payment those men, Greatest Willing, that they are men, would ransack from here to Albrach, possibly even beyond.” He finished, as he returned to his meal, the pain in his stomach passing.

“Hm…well so you believe.” Mumbled Jan Ernest, a defeated look crossing his face, as he distracted himself by indulging in the foods around himself. An awkward silence took hold of the table, as the men focused on their appetites for a brief moment, until Prince Konrad decided to spring up another topic.

“Bah, let us talk about such matters after. What about your other children, Frederick? Are they due to be married any time soon?” Inquired Prince Konrad, the same look of curiosity flashing across his face.

“Ah, it’s far too early for that. Jan Albrecht, my eldest son, is only eight.” Answered Frederick, as his eyes gazed to the small table of five. Jan Albrecht was seated there, having just finished his meal, and was asking the maid if he could go away to play. “His younger brother Siegmund is not even five. So it’s far too early to discuss that…but when they are older, I will have to think it over.” He continued, before following up with a question of his own. “So what about your children Konrad?”

Prince Konrad grew quiet for a second, an uneasy look crossing his face as he thought over his cousin’s question. That matter had been a touchy subject for the Prince, and he spoke little of it. He had three daughters, and the last two pregnancies of his aging wife, the Lady Anna Sophia, had resulted in two stillborns, leaving the Lady sickly and weak, and the succession uncertain. His eldest daughter Anna was already of age to be married, but he had not set out looking for a suitor just yet, a product of his indecisiveness.

“We are…discussing the matter of my eldest, Anna.” He lied, having not spoken about it in months, neither with his wife nor his relatives like Airmanreik.

Airmanreik nodded, remembering Anna as a fine young lady, well mannered, and well versed in the prophets writings, “Whoever she marries will be a very lucky man indeed.” He said simply, as he bit into his pork, before growing full. “Though, brother, how are your other daughters? I saw Anna, I believe two years ago at one of my lodges, if I remember correctly, but I have not seen my other nieces in some years I believe?” He said, uncertain, as he tried to recall their last outing together, “I only remember a hot spring where the children rode horses while we all recited poetry.” He smiled, simple, but good times he thought.

Konrad smiled, the memories of that spring livening his mood, which had been dampened by the thoughts of his succession. “Éda, the middle daughter, is quite well, a scholarly one. Perhaps a bit quiet and shy, though I do not see that as a fault. Then there’s Katherein…ah, she’s a singer, that one! Always reading poetry and the such…takes up after her mother, I suppose. They’re fine lasses, and the grooms will be lucky to have them…whoever they may be.” He replied, his mind turning back to the succession, and at once he distracted himself with the food, his hand reaching out to grab a chunk of pork.

Over at the table on the left, which sat by the stained glass windows, Lady Sophia was sitting quietly with the other older sons and daughters of the nobles, feasting momentarily on a piece of bread or meat, before reaching out for her cup of water. Jan Ernest the Younger, as he was called, the son of Baron Jan Ernest, sat by her side. At the table was also Heinrik and Leudbold, seated together by Lady Sophia, who rather seemed to be at the centre of the table, even though she ate little, and said less.

Leudbold enjoyed a piece of thinly cut chicken, dipped into cranberry, munched into a thick sauce, the meal delicious, and a familiar taste he had not eaten in some years. “Lady Sophia, do you happen to recall our last visit here, when we were younger?” He said smirking, “I believe I might’ve had this exact meal then too.” He said laughing at his simple tastes.

“I cannot recall too well.” Replied the lady softly, her mind clearly on other matters, as her eyes began to wander, turning from her plate of food to the stained glass window. “Yet it is entirely possible. My father does indeed enjoy these meals. It feels like we have them every time we go to Ulmefurt Castle.”

Heinrik was less amused, and much more bored, having not eaten much of anything. He simply wanted to move on into the hall, so that his father and his peers would decide a course of action. All this sitting drove him into madness, “Brother, do you think father will let me ride in his vanguard?” He asked, causing Leudbold to almost spit up his cranberry sauce, as he choked on the thought.

Leudbold scoffed for a moment, before turning to his brother, “Brother, we have a lady at this table, and as such, we will discuss no such thing till the coming evening.”He said firmly, as his eyes burnt into his less mature brother, before returning to his chicken.

The Lady Sophia chuckled at Heinrik’s brazenness, and at Leudbold having put down his brother so swiftly. “One should hope that there will be no vanguard to ride with to begin with.” She remarked, her mind turning to thoughts of the war, as she took a bite of duck.

Leudbold nodded in agreement, though he did want to march on the Syrds, and avenge his cousin, who they killed, he did understand that war was pointless and destructive in the end. “Aye, I hope nothing comes from these meetings, as so much blood has already stained our countryside.” He said in a low mumble, as he thought of the south. “But, whatever may happen, I am sure you will be safe, my Lady, along with your soon to be, Greatest ensures this, no doubt.” Leudbold said certain, his piety unmoved even in war.

Heinrik shrugged, as he sipped his water, its taste unbearable, before placing it down. “Aye.” He said in agreement, merely wishing to appear uniform with his elder brother’s opinions. “I do wonder, Lady Sophia, when do you believe you will finally get to meet this lucky man, that is, if you haven’t already?” He asked, more curious about the Syrdish noble she was to marry, than her.

“I have not met him before, no. The date of the wedding was to be decided this year, but such a matter has been delayed by the awful war. Iskren’s sake, this war…it’s complicated everything. Yet the wedding will happen nonetheless.” She said, taking on a lofty expression, an air of aloofness surrounding her as she spoke of the wedding. “Greatest willing, I will meet Krysztof next spring. Is the conflict not mostly in the south, in Korbek, and not here?” She asked, unsure of what she was saying.

Heinrik turned his head to his brother, who knew much more on the actual happenings of the war, due to his father’s privy councils, but then turned to the Lady before he could speak, “Aye, but I have heard rumor that they will need to march north soon.” He said, having heard rumors, he was confident in his words, but his brother was unamused by his brother’s response.

“My Lady, I will not trouble your soul with the details of war,” he said, pausing as he glanced at his brother, “but, my brother, rash in words as he may be, is correct. The Syrds will have to move north at some point, yet we do not know when.” He said, before taking a sip of his water, unsure of how to continue, having not wanted to discuss the matter in front of a woman. He was now unsure how to proceed, but would try. “In all likelihood, the army of Duke Martyn will leave the low country and make winter camp in either Syrduria or perhaps on the borderlands, maybe in far western parts of the Ducal lands of Korbek.” He said, as he nodded to himself. “If the war does not conclude during the winter talks, which will certainly occur,I would assume the army will move north, to secure more vital lands, as they have struggled to hold anything in the low country.”

“Aye, the damned Syrds don’t know how to siege a castle!” Heinrik laughed at his own comment, but his brother's gaze silenced him further.

“It is unlikely that they were prepared for sieges, presumably hoping this war would conclude after the first battles…” He said, but quickly remembered his company, as he corrected his posture, “But, with all hope the war will conclude in these coming talks.” He said, leaving out the mention of what would come if no peace was secured.

The Lady Sophia mulled over Leudbold’s words, not too sure what to think of them, though the prospect of the Syrdish army moving north did seem alarming. “We will have to put our faith in The Greatest, and our hope in these talks. Greatest willing, this war will come to an end in winter. I will pray for it daily, as should we all.” She said, making the sign of The Greatest and pressing it to her lips, before turning her gaze to the stained glass window, which depicted St. Alvar, standing triumphantly over his foes.

Leubold followed her example, making the sign of the Greatest, before pressing it to his lips. Heinrik followed moments after, before returning to his bored gaze around the room.

As the grand plates of the feast were gradually emptied, and both the men and women had gorged themselves on the available food, the dinner eventually began to draw to a close. Servants would enter the room, and take away the empty platters, while those who had already stuffed themselves full would clean themselves with a handkerchief, before waiting idly for everyone else to finish. Prince-Prelate Jan, for one, had long since completed his meal, and sat around strangely, occasionally talking to those around. It took a while for Prince Konrad and Prince Frederick to finally declare themselves to be full, and they were followed by many others. Eventually everyone had finished, and the servants cleaned away what was left, the feast having come to a close.

The women and the young, as well as those who would not attend the meeting, saw themselves out, exiting the grand hall of the castle, as the men of importance mulled over what to say when the meeting would finally begin. Prince Frederick’s servants rearranged the three great tables and chairs to form a long line, and like before, everyone sat in an organised—almost hierarchical—manner. Men like Frederick, Airmanreik and Konrad were seated at one end of the three tables, and the men of lesser and lesser consequence were seated further and further away. Heinrik and Leudbold, as Airmanreik’s sons, were allowed a seat closer to Frederick—the Prince thought it would be wise for them to sit close and learn. The youngest among the group of men was Jan Ernest the Younger, aged only sixteen, his father having insisted that he attend.

“Well, I believe now we can commence, seeing that the servants have finished their duties.” Said Prince Frederick, before turning to Airmanreik. “I would like to present to you all, Palsgrave Airmanreik, who did in his great wisdom march south to call this meeting, which I did graciously accept. I think it would be fitting for him to begin, no?” He explained, and there were murmurs of agreement from the men.

Airmanreik stood, before turning to Prince Frederick, dropping his head in a bow, “Thank you again, Prince Frederick, for lending your wonderful castle to us in such a time of need.” He said, placing his hand to his chest, before turning back to the small, but important crowd around him. “I summoned this council of the midland and northern Hallish gentry, to discuss the matter that we have all felt on our doorstep.” He said as he glanced around the room, his eyes darting from one man to the other, “We must, as our cousins did in Grafsburg, discuss the Syrdish invasion of the Ducal lands of Korbek and the other members of this league of theirs.” He said, as he looked around the room, before swallowing, as he processed his words, “We, as some of the most powerful men left in our country, must answer our countries plea, in some form.” He added, as he nodded, “A course of action must be taken, a decision must be decided. As such, I summoned us here, as you all know, to discuss how we shall respond to this Syrdish incursion.” He finished, returning to his seat.

“Aye! A response is needed. Something must be done about this sudden threat to our families, our lands, and our livelihoods.” Exclaimed Prince Konrad, bringing his hand down upon the table, which shuddered with a sudden thud. “The whole of Halland stands at stake if we do not act.”

“Indeed, cousin. Act we must.” Replied Prince Frederick. “Yet I am sure that none of us wishes to throw our lot in with the league. I believe that this council was called for us to take a more…peaceful approach, no?” He asked, turning to Airmanreik, curious on his thoughts of the League and the war.

“I do not wish to provoke longer conflict, but if the Syrds do not respect our privileges, privileges we Hallish have long had, how can we not respond with sword in hand?” He said, more in the form of a question than a statement, as he shook his head unsure. “I am old and would never suggest marching in war, normally, but these are abnormal times I am afraid if we can not make the young King Karlus see that peace is preferable to war…” He sighed, as he placed his hand onto the table, “I want peace in our country, and would see it done with parchment instead of sword.” He said, unable to continue for the moment as he dwelled on his words, before returning his thoughts to the League.

“The League, however, I will not march with.” He said bluntly, “Unless the King declares on the whole of our country, I shall not march under banners of the men who helped provoke this conflict further.” He finished.

“Sound words, indeed, cousin.” Said Prince Konrad, nodding. “I have nothing but respect for those of us who have maintained our temperament and not thrown our hats in with the League and its treachery. But Hans Albrecht? Why, although he is my cousin, and a fine man, I do have my misgivings about him and his actions. He already chose to declare himself independent from King Karlus, and once retribution was delivered upon his lands, he decided it wise to weave together an alliance with some of the other Hallish nobles. Him and that woman of Alvaringen…Lady Anna Katherein. Who arguably started this whole mess in the first place.”

“He deserved it though. Did he not, if I recall, call the whole of us, traitors?” Spoke up Jan Ernest the Younger, eager to make his mark on the meeting.

“Bah! Those are rumours, dear boy, rumours. Who knows who said what at Grafsburg? Though it couldn’t have been pleasant.” Answered Prince Frederick.

“Turning back to your words, Prince Konrad.” Said Baron Jan Ernest as he shifted the conversation. “I see the reason of what you have said, but you cannot deny that the League has its reasons. It only took a simple proclamation from Rupperstadt for King Karlus to bring an army of 20,000 into Halland and start sacking every town and village in his sight! From my view, the League simply wants the Syrdish army out of Halland!” He argued.

Airmanreik scoffed, “You know that is simply untrue, Baron Jan.” He said, as he pointed at the Baron, “The Duke of Korbek simply followed his ambition, neglecting his obligations, plunging our country into greater war than was necessary. This League, though formed only after the initial battles, as the conflict expanded, only exists because Duke Hans Albrecht brought the whole of Halland into his power grab of a war.” He said, sure of himself, though he had never been fond of the Duke, long since known in the whole of the country.

“It was ambition, none can deny that. The League has expanded the conflict to dimensions not before seen. Now with the recent battle at Uzhental there’s talks of the Syrdish army moving north next year. Is it not likely that come next spring, we will have a force of 20,000 ravenous mercenaries on our doorstep? One shudders at the thought.” Remarked Prince Frederick.

“Quite so.” Concurred Prince Konrad, and Baron Jan Ernest was cowed into silence by their words. “If this war is not put to a stop soon, it will consume all of Halland. Mark my words, all of you. In one years time all of Halland will have been ravaged by these mercenaries, who will ramp our lands end to end in the search for any speck of food and gold! They are a grave threat.”

Airmanreik nodded in agreement, “Aye, I fear not the Syrds themselves, but their army more than anything. They are like rabid mutts, only seeking riches that simply do not exist.” He said, as he made a gesture, “Just look at the lands of Korbek, nothing is left there. They burnt, destroyed, consumed it all in fire. I fear, if those same men march north, and are given orders to do the same here, well I believe they would do so in an instant. Our main goal must be in stopping the Syrdish army from coming north, either by means of words or that of a sword.” He finished, hoping the others would agree.

“Then how shall we act?” Said Jan Ernest, in an almost mocking tone.

“That is why we are here, is it not, Baron?” Airmanreik shot back, annoyed by the remark.

“Of course, Your Grace. I am simply…confused about your plan of action. Are we to write a letter to Duke Martyn, and humbly ask that he refrain from sacking our estates and lands? Are we to…get down our knees to do so? And when Duke Martyn’s army inevitably marches north, and inevitably sacks our lands nonetheless, are we to take up arms?” He said, in an exasperated tone, quite overwhelmed by the fact that his liege had shown him no favour, and had sided with Airmanreik. He looked around the table for support.

“There will be no other result from this than us taking up arms. We will have to defend our lands against the Syrdish menace, no matter how much we may try to stop their advance. I did hear from a friend, who recanted to me a sermon spoken by the Prelate of Grafsburg, who put my thoughts into words most expertly. He likened the Syrdish army to a pack of wild dogs, driven forward by their master, King Karlus, who unleashed this menace upon Halland. Like how we and our brave ancestors drove away the packs of Hirvio and Felixtius, we must now drive this…necromantic beast away from our lands.” Spoke up Prince-Prelate Jan, who had been the first to come to Jan Ernest’s side. His likening of the Syrdish army to Felixtius’ forces was not well-received, however, and even Jan Ernest looked at him in some shock, concerned that the Prince-Prelate’s words would only bring more men to Airmanreik’s cause.

“You compare the Syrds to men such as Hirvio and Felixtius, Prince-Prelate? Have you been stricken with madness? Do the Syrds raise undead, or raise armies of heretics to bring upon the end of days, good Sir?” Heinrik blurted, the young man speaking out of turn, but uncaring of his father’s soon to come anger. “I want to take up the sword, like Baron Jan Ernst, but to suggest that King Karlus is like those monsters, men who we whisper in nightmarish stories to children is simply outlandish!” He barked, as he slammed his fist onto the table.

“Enough from you, boy!” Airmanreik roared, as he stood, “Leudbold, remove your brother, now.” He ordered, Leudbold doing so in an instant, as he was quickly pushed outside from the room. Airmanreik felt embarrassed by his son’s uproar, but turned to the Prince-Prelate, “My son has spoken out of turn, and quite so disrespectfully to once, such as yourself, but the boy’s words, rash as they are, strike true. To imply that the Syrds, our cousins and countrymen are like that of pure evil is beneath you.” He finished, as he sat back down.

“The boy’s words are not bad, for a man his age!” Laughed Prince Konrad, quickly taking the opportunity to mock the Prince-Prelate, his dislike of the old man quite evident. Yet when he had said those words, Prince Frederick shot him a fiery look. The memories of that dispute over the Prince-Prelatecy was fresh in the minds of both men, and Frederick would not tolerate Konrad and Heinrik insulting his ally and uncle, even if he did not agree with the words of the Prince-Prelate.

“I apologize for my words, My Lords.” Said the Prince-Prelate, his frail voice turning soft and hoarse. “Yet the message in the Prelate of Grafsburg’s sermon still remains the same, at least for me. If His Highness King Karlus does not see reason and end this miserable war, we will have no choice but to take up arms against the Syrdish army. Do we not agree on this?” He continued, his voice rising in loudness. “Come now, lords, we must find a basic consensus. Do we not agree on this?” He repeated. There were murmurs of agreement, and Baron Jan Ernest let out a loud “Aye!”, followed by his son. Prince Konrad and Prince Frederick were themselves not averse to the Prince-Prelate’s words, their faces one of mild concordance.

“I suppose I do.” Said Konrad, and Frederick nodded. “Yet that does not mean that we cannot take other avenues first. We must try to have King Karlus see reason.”

“Can he see reason? He is a young lad, with barely any hair on his chest. All the while, his father Duke Martyn remains in command of the army, swinging his 20,000 men wherever he pleases.” Said Jan Ernest, confidence returning to his voice.

“That is what we must find out,” Airmanreik said towards Jan Ernst, before going quiet. Airmanreik remained still, before nodding, “We will defend our lands with sword in hand if King Karlus or Duke Martyn marches north, but it should not be, in my opinion, the only action taken. I believe, and forward a proposal to demand that His Highness contain this war inside the lands of Korbek, not extending it into neutral lands, such as ours. If His Highness ignores our proposal, I forward that we defend Halland from the invaders.” He said, as he tried to get a sense of the mood of his words.

“Indeed.” Concurred Prince Konrad. “Furthermore, although it is likely to be futile, I do propose that we also request His Highness to end this war, or at least commence peace talks with the Hallish League. A similar request should be handed to Hans Albrecht and his firebrand son Prince Kristian as well, in my opinion.” He continued, and there were yet more murmurs of agreement.

“I see all of this as futile.” Said the Prince-Prelate. “How can we expect the Syrdish army to stick to its lands in Korbek, when lords like Landgrave Jan Sigismund of Eltenhof and Count Josef of Halbenstein have already marched south to Obersrath? How can we expect the Syrds to simply stay in Korbek and allow themselves to be outflanked? Already we have heard rumours that the Syrds will start moving north, and I hardly think that this will dissuade them sufficiently...but I do not wholeheartedly disagree with it. If the Syrds do indeed march north, I will be glad to take up arms with the rest of us here, to defend Halland.”

“It is not about whether they will listen, but the fact we propose a peace at all.” Airmanreik stated. “If they ignore our proposal, one of merit, considering Korbek is their true and main enemy, then we are exposed to the true nature of this conflict. Either the Syrds will stay in Korbek, and conclude the war inside of it, or we will see the true ambitions of His Highness and His Grace, Duke Martyn. If they march north, then this war is larger than what it seems, as it is not a rebellion that they are crushing, but a simple act of Syrdish aggression on all of Halland.” He concluded.

“Yet the rebellion does not entail only Korbek. Alvaringen, Albrach, Eltenhof, Halbenstein. They have all taken up arms against the King. How can, then, the Syrds stick in Korbek if their enemies are spread out all over Halland? If they were to attack my lands, and besiege Kotzburg, then yes, that would be an act of aggression on all of Halland, but if they simply pass through my lands to get to Eltenhof, is that really an act of aggression on all of Halland?” Questioned Prince Konrad.

“If His Grace’s army marches north, then their goal will be uprooting all those who raised rebellion, brother. If His Grace is able to crush this rebellion, while we simply sit idle, letting him pass by, then in four years time this will not be Halland.” He stated plainly.

“I suppose so. So we agree that we are not to let any Syrdish soldier step foot in our lands without retaliation? And that we are to request His Highness refrain from involving northern Halland in the conflict, and that both he and the League try to bring the war to a close on peaceful terms? And that if Duke Martyn does indeed move north with his army, we will have no choice but to take up arms in order to bring this conflict to a swift end?” Asked Konrad. There were mumbles, then murmurs, then words of agreement. Jan Ernest and Prince-Prelate Jan shrugged in concurrence—in their eyes, there was no way the Syrds would not march north, so conflict was inevitable anyways. Frederick smiled, happy that the men had reached a consensus.

“I can draft the document. Are we to all sign it?” Asked Frederick.

“Aye.” Said Prince Konrad, and this was repeated by many others.

Airmanreik nodded, “Aye, we are in agreement.”

A wide smile grew on Prince Frederick’s face, as he fetched for one of his servants, who passed him a long sheet of parchment and a quill with ink. Motioning for Airmanreik, Prince Konrad and the other important men to come around him, he sat down and began writing, always asking if a certain phrase was acceptable, or if another sentence was too aggressive, and so on, with each man voicing his thoughts and opinions. The drafting would drag on well into the evening.

Rolais, Corcaigh mor, Chirenai, Namalar, and 4 othersRyeongse, Brelogne, Windstaat, and Straulechen

Seranitia

A day in Seranitia

The March of Time

Serene Prince Aithlin Gerissimo sat in his study. An open window to a balcony permitting a pleasant nights breeze to flitter into the old man’s office, dishevelling some papers and flickering the candlelight by which he wrote.

Each drip of wax, and flutter of the candle, caught the aged elf’s gaze. Frail, wrinkled fingers held a quill delicately, but with a certain determination, an energy beyond the old man’s age. Aithlin could feel it, second by second, shown by the candle he wrote besides. The seconds, ticking away. Mortality, creeping upon him. It merely redoubled his resolve. Delicate, elven writing was put to expensive parchment.

For a moment, he again paused, gaze drawn to the window, the streets below. The capital of his republic, even at night, held life to it. Lit taverns, filthy backstreets, and the district he’d spent nearly a decade trying to uproot with its soft, red lamps. This view was the greatest in Seranad - nay, the entire world. Further still, beyond the still-busy streets, lay the harbour, where ships of all stripes sat at rest, bobbing gently as the waves swayed under the Moon’s influence. There lay the Cities fleet, and the traders that were her lifeblood. The coin that flowed through Seranad and her sister-cities is what he hoped to leverage tonight.

For the letter the Serene Prince wrote was one that was self-aware. The state that he had guided for the past thirty years would soon have to find another Captain. He could feel it in his bones, in each struggling step, and in each breath. Ironically, he wrote to another Captain. For all of the wealth the Serene Prince held, none of it mattered if the ship of state were to run-aground.

For when he died, the council would convene. And the council had fallen into factionalism long before Aithlin’s time, and would likely stay such for many more years to come. Those major groups - the Restoriatora, the Druidli, the Murachano, the Bancheria - had become even more divided under his watch. This, in truth, was his failing. For all of his successes as Serene Prince, he had forgotten something so deeply, deeply important - that no one, not even an elf, shall live forever. He had neglected the power-brokering, the compromise that had gotten him elected in the first place. And now, it may well tear his dear Republic apart.

For a ship without a Captain is doomed. The council could take weeks, or months, or years to decide upon his successor - a concept that could leave the Republic paralysed and weak, a target for vultures within and without. And thus, the Prince’s letter, and the Prince’s coin. For while the Moons Shield would keep Seranad afloat, and even the Starguard could supplement them and guard the council as it voted - what of the other cities? The city guard of Seranad was the finest in the Republic, well-funded, motivated and trained, but the same could not be said for her sister-cities. Corruption, favoritism and factionalism were rife within their ranks, and existed even within the Moons Shield itself. Such things would create cracks, which soon would shatter his beloved Republic. But these were not the only forces in Seranisia.

For a republic of wealth makes an enticing target, but also an opportunity. Giorga, the second city of the Republic, had become the center of her mercenary armies. A dozen Mercenary companies directly headquartered there, and a dozen more could be contracted at a moments notice. And it is here that the Serene Prince wrote, to the Captain of the Chipped Horn Company - a majority-Dsen company that held loyalty to the Republic in high regard. Beneath, of course, its loyalty to coin. For the Chipped Horn’s understood that, while Seranisia’s enemies may try to outbid her, and may even succeed, the coin from Seranisia was consistent, it was good, and it was paid on-time. Other companies existed, of course, but the Serene Prince needed first, and foremost, the Chipped Horns.

For it was they that could keep the sister-cities in line. It was they that could keep the wolves from the borders. And it was they that would keep, for now, his beloved Republic safe. He could only pray that they would stand down to the new Serene Prince, of course. This thought, for a moment, gave him pause. A consideration, perhaps, of the grave consequences and implications of if his Republic truly fell. Perhaps…Perhaps there were another year in these old bones of his. He considered the letter, for a few moments, in silence.

Gently, he folded it, and sealed his envelope with the wax seal of the Serene Prince, the North star that had guided them free. A deep breath, as eyes closed, and options were considered. A sigh escaped his lips, as quietly, he tucked the letter into a coffer, for the eve. Something to sleep on. He’d worked late into the night - and his Republic could not afford him to work himself to death, even in its service. With one last gaze over the bay, and the ships that bob gently in the waves, the Serene Prince turned to depart into his bedroom. Perhaps, considering the irony of his own title.

A March of Iron

Miles away and hours ago, a small army was marshaled. It was nearly always marshaled, of course. The Chipped Horn company prided itself on being punctual, amongst its many other talents. Captain Varè Armantilligo gazed out over the training grounds, sun bearing down on the newest recruits of his ever-growing company. This was good. They’d just concluded a contract to smash yet another bandit army, well-equipped and well-trained. Certainly, servants of the Restoriatora that liked to chip away at the cities he was paid so well to protect. He’d lost more than a few good brothers to their latest bout of treachery. They’d been routed, of course they had, but they’d probably be back, as well-equipped as ever. And he’d smash them again, like he always did. Armantilligo was nothing if not a professional, after all.

Usually, the Captain was far too busy arranging contracts to observe a mere drilling session, but today was a particularly special day. For amongst all of the men that practised their movements under the sun, was a young Dsen woman. Unusual, uncommon, and looked down upon, but not illegal, especially for an independent mercenary company. Alia Armantilligo had been insistent that she join her father’s company, and even threatened to try at other companies to make him concede. An argument that had lasted nearly half a year, before he was finally convinced.

The concept did not sit well with him, of course. Not just because she was a woman, but Varè had a single daughter, and he did not want this life for her. Alas, grown as she was, her decisions were her own. If she made the cut for his company, he would treat her as he would any man under his command, but part of him wondered. If he could order her to hold a strategic point that was assailed. Or scale a wall as crossbowmen and archers chipped away at their ranks. That would be a test for another day. Now, he merely watched, a quiet pride to his broad, brooding frame. A hand reached up to rub, unconsciously, at the scar that had claimed one of his eyes, before he stopped himself.

A grunt. All of this watching made his mind drift to the early days. When he and his brothers came south, hearing of places with wealth that piled taller than all of them upon one-anothers shoulders. When Karel chipped his horn, and inspiration struck him. He missed his old Captain, the founder of their Company. He missed all of them, their faces half-faded into memory, taken by the life of violence that had chosen them.

All but one.

A heavy hand clapped him on the back as Guirman Armantilligo approached him, a smirk on his face. “You look miserable.”

Varè gazed up at his old friend, his second, and his closest brother. “We’re both miserable.” He responded, to a laugh.

“Yes, we are. But I don’t stand here brooding, Varè.” A pause. “She’ll be fine. She’s got your blood in her, and her Mother’s.” He pointed out, a shake of his head. “Come on. We’ve another client who wants to speak to our legendary Captain.”

Varè paused, then nodded. “Mm. Fine. One’s like that usually have more coin than sense.”

A Blackguards Life

Sionia was at the outskirts of the village, half-crouched into a bush, practically invisible. The young elven woman had been the first scout to arrive, and was granted the dubious honour of keeping watch for any sort of alert amongst the parasites that scuttled about the place.

It wasn’t easy. This was her first village. The rest of them had told her the first village is always hard unless you’re part of the inner circle, but that you got used to it. She wondered if that was true, watching those little human children scuttle about, playing in their parents fields. ’They’re parasites’ She reminded herself, internally. ’They came to our republic, to steal our land, and put is bondage like they did to our forefathers. Those children are future oppressors.’ Her justification was cut short by the approach of her commander, a scarred, older man who went by Sprig. She was Autumn. They didn’t use real names, since it would be dangerous. The enemies of the Restoration were many, and these days they were so few. Sionia was their first fresh recruit in nearly five years.

Internally, she thought it perhaps the fault of their leader, the man she’d sworn fealty to. In Seranada, they called him a bandit-king, a madman, and a murderer. But here, they spoke of him almost…reverentially. The Emperor of Elvenkind. The Restorator. He who Cannot be Killed. Illithor Aewenys went by many names, but he had been a thorn in the side of the Serene Prince for a decade now. She didn’t care if the Emperor was a mad-man. He was a path to revenge that she was going to take.

The attack was sudden, and swift. A rain of arrows fell upon those exposed, indiscriminate. Those that had horses ran down those that fled. And Sionia and the scouts went for the food stocks, grabbing whatever they could - half-baked bread, barely fresh vegetables, even wheat and rye. Their cooks could do something with it. For they were an army of the wilds, and these were their enemy. And the enemy could keep them fed. Cattle were stolen or slaughtered, depending on ease. This village didn’t need them anymore, after all.

And then, the looting. They would take anything they wanted - the human parasites didn’t deserve it anymore. These were farmers, of course, and poor, but that didn’t stop Sionia, or the rest of her group, from taking the spoils. And the killing, of course. Those that took up rusted swords or pitchforks were dangerous if you got unlucky. Sionia didn’t mind killing those. They were fighting back, after all. The rest she left to her group. She hadn’t the stomach for it, yet. She threw up the first house they went into.

Then, the burning, to scare out those that had hidden well, or dispose of them if they stayed. And to mark, clearly, that their Army had been victorious. To purge the parasites from this patch of land they had stolen from rightful Elven hands. Fire would rid it of the humans that had stolen it, and one day, when the Empire had been restored and the Emperor crowned rightfully, they would return it to the Elves it had been stolen from.

The few, scattered survivors would spread the news. The Bandit-King had struck them, he was in the north! And their army would have moved by the time anyone would arrive to catch them.

And one day, their army would march on Seranad. One day.

The Benefits of Neutrality

For Erandriel Eltris, they were many.

The increasing division and factionalism in the Grand Council, and the aging Serene Prince, made each eligible, voting member so very, very important. And just two months ago, Erandriel had reached his fourtieth year. Eligible, at last, to vote. And so the petitioning began. All of the big four wanted one more voter. One more edge to help them win out over their rivals.

First, it was the Murachano. The trading families, whose wealth was built off of their control of the fleets. And wealth they certainly spread, inviting Erandriel to a lavish party and gifting him several items of foreign origin. They spoke of lending him and his family a few ships with good crews, a pile of goods, to see him begin a trading empire like their own - and repay them when the time came, of course. Erandriel understood these people the most. They cared about their profits above all, and wanted to leverage their influence on the Council to do just that.

Then came the Druidli. The guilds, the landlords of the periphery, and the few Mages the Republic houses. They came to him, offering solidly made, if less extravagant, gifts made by their own hand, or the hands of their employees. To speak to him of the need to give back to those below. Erandriel considered them contemptible, but he appreciated the new table, and it stylised quite well in his study. Certainly, he was not planning to snub them, just yet. He understood their reasonings, even if he disliked them - to reduce the dependence on foreign trade, and instead leverage the goods that the Guilds themselves could make, and the land produce. A noble concept, but frightfully dull and childish, to his eye.

Onto less pleasant company, for next were the Bancheria. The agitators. They start with the letters. Inviting him to the sister-cities. To see the marvels that existed only outside of Seranad. A ridiculous notion, of course, but three weeks ago he finally entertained it. The party was nice enough, but they spoke of dull things. Granting the cities more rights. Expanding the council, as if he wanted competition! Even putting a so-called limit upon the powers of the Serene Prince. Their last point was an interesting one, to strengthen the council over their elected leader. Certainly, he could use more power. But no city compared to fair Seranad.

Finally, the madmen. The Restoriatora. Rabid expansionists, who would see their cities wealth squandered on campaigns against their neighbours, to carve out a nation-state of Elves comparable to the South. Utterly convinced of the need to defend their liberty through such means, to hire whatever mercenaries it takes, even create a levy system to further funnel lives into an endeavour that would end in death and suffering. Of all the factions, Erandriel found little common ground with them. He only entertained them when they showed up at night, in force, and demanded a meeting with him. A smile, a nod, and a promise to consider…And then, a quick messenger to some fine mercenaries for protection, should they show up again. Coin tended to solve his problems.

For now, Erandriel would sit on his laurels. He liked the invitations to parties, the gifts, and the promises. Maybe he would stay on the fence forever, and vote on whims. That seemed an entertaining prospect.

The Merchant’s Shield

To some, being the commander of the Starguard was an honour. But for Grand Capitan Ivasaar Adimiro, it was a burden. While nominally, he lead only one force, in practice he was the man all turned too when talk of conflict and war arose. For the only authority higher on such matters was the aging bureaucrat that had been elected Serene Prince. And so, Ivasaar stood as the commander of the entire Republic.

First and foremost there were, of course, his own Starguard. The ceremonial guard of the Serene Prince did more than just stand around, and look fancy. While they were only numbered eighty, they were the finest men in the Republic, disciplined and trained with pike to fight in the tight streets of Seranad. Elves who had trained for a decade at least, the third and fourth sons of the rich and influential who can proclaim, proudly, that their child serves in the ranks of Seranisia’s finest.

Then, the Moon’s Shield. The city watch of Seranad, and the largest non-mercenary force in the Republic. For every Shield who did his duty well, there were three who were lazy, careless, corrupt or apathetic - or a combination of such traits. Their commander, Watchman-Capitan Emmyth, was a lazy commoner who cared only about the paycheck the city rolled out, and the bribes that he was granted for ignoring crimes. Despite this, the Shield was still a useful force, for none were stupid enough to skimp on the defences of the City itself. Armed mostly with crossbow and pike, their formations would work well enough on a defensive footing.

Then, the navy. Most warships were the legal property of the Serene Prince, though some were privately owned by the most wealth of families. Unlike the Shields, the Wavespear prided itself in warding away pirates from the trade routes of the Republic, and in times of war, being an effective deterrent to any that would desire to blockade and starve Seranad of its trade, or even invasion by sea. The Spears crews could fight both offensively and defensively, but were focused more upon keeping their ships afloat in battle.

The mercenaries. When paid, they were the most numerous and powerful fighting force in the Republic. But in a time of crisis and war, the Republic would see its coffers drained by greedy Captains, looking to enrich themselves off of the back of Seranisia. While they can smash the enemies of Seranisia in battle after battle, they will always be watching for when the coin runs dry. For then, they may see the offers of their enemies as more enticing.

For the past three years, Ivasaar had also been in contact with a stranger, who simply called themselves ‘Ilikas’. Ilikas is his closest source to the mysterious Captain of the Rangers of the Periphery, a semi-independent force that attempts to police and maintain order in the Republics nominal, inland territory. At least, when mercenaries fail. Supposedly, they’re a mostly bow-oriented group, and Ivasaar has no idea where they get their supplies or funding from, leaving a tenuous loyalty to the republic.

Grim odds, perhaps, but it was what the Republic had. A defenseless Republic was a doomed Republic, and the Grand Capitan’s job grew more and more important (and difficult), as Serene Prince Gerissimo seemed to grow older, and weaker, by the day.

Corcaigh mor, Elvhenen, Chirenai, Ryeongse, and 1 otherEskeland

Dhorvas civil war phase 1
The Mergen Offensive
Copost with Elvhenen

Commander Arasiel, a formal title given to him by his men to symbolize his position as the boss of the mercenary company. When Arasiel had served in the Empyrial Army during the Seascourge Crisis, never made it close to a position of command asides from a section of ten soldiers that had been utilized by the First Battlegroup during the Qirinai Campaign that fought the fish-like creatures bloody in one of the underground Qirinii cities. In truth, Arasiel was merely just their foreman, a supervisor. A military title like Commander wasn't something he was approving of, but the name stuck. Many of these warriors assigned to this contract were former members of the Empyrial military and as such were well trained, strong in every regard, and highly disciplined. From their headquarters in Yiywa, they'd been hired to quell the riots and whispered rebellions that lurked around every corner, every crack in the stone, under every bed sheet. Since the Empyrial Army fled to Jaluna, Arasiel and his company of armed men silenced the rumors within the year, using methods that were considered distasteful and "borderline" torture as worded by one of the Elven captains that remained to keep the appearance of a military presence in the city. The methods didn't matter, which were the same words Arasiel had said to this inquisitive Captain and shortly after were paid in full. Since then, they'd garnered more recruits, more weapons and armor and even a few matchlock rifles acquired from the Empyrial military.

Months later, they were now given their next mission. Received from a Khemakh known as Oghal, they were to be hired to provide adequate bodies for their frontline in the fight to secure their homeland against enemies, both foreign and domestic. Arasiel couldn't help but feel a bit nervous for the endeavor, considering they had never fought on foreign soil, though they had taken some contracts that returned them to the Eternals for a short time, usually to escort some Empyrial noble or Qirinii merchant heading north for Riddenheim. Regardless of his own feelings about it, he had the men they needed and he needed the money they were offering. Within the fortnight, he would send his reply and would make way for Xuuaka.

***

The ride from Yiywa to the Kazmoxai Empyrate was a long and exhausting one and while the journey felt like it took ages, they'd managed to arrive in record time, far exceeding what he believed they'd arrive by. The supply train for three thousand soldiers was the most exhausting part but well worth the additional headache. Booking passage aboard Qirinii and Empyrial merchant vessels had various levels of difficulty depending on their allegiances. The captain of the Empyrial Dawn wholeheartedly accepted the additional load of troops into his cargo hold while the captain of the Xinjan Strider threatened violence against Commander Arasiel for even suggesting it. To no-one's surprise within the mercenary company, the Xinjan Strider's captain quickly changed her mind when they used like-minded tactics. All in all, Commander Arasiel managed to book transport for all of his troops. A logistical nightmare such as this reminded him how easy it was when he was in the service of the Empyrial military. There was no convincing captains or waiting for them to check off their exotic cargo from the frigid Uyutahn north. There was simply the order, adjusting for the order and completing the order. What Commander Arasiel wouldn't give to use those Empyrial Navy vessels just once was a mystery to all but him, but it can be assumed that it would be much.

***

Turzhan

Oghal sat at a table, pouring over news and messages. One message had been a response to her call for mercenaries, something she needed if she was going to break the present stalemate that had developed. The rebellious siban had failed to take Sarol, but Dehqan was still pinged within the city. Gera and the dhorva band, meanwhile, had managed to evade them in the north, focusing mostly on hit and run strikes and avoiding a larger battle. They clearly were not confident that they could move on Turzhan itself. Unfortunately Oghal was not yet confident she could commit too much against her enemy either. Not before fresh soldiers arrived. Her advantage at the moment was that her enemy did not know that she had reinforcements arriving, else they would likely become bolder in their actions.

The noise of footsteps disturbed Oghal from her thoughts and she turned in her seat to see Tokur arrive. Her fellow khemakh was more administrator than soldier, but he had been vital in preparing the city and dealing with many of the more trivial tasks in maintaining the army. “Is the payment ready for when the elves arrive?”, she asked as he came to stand by the parchment covered table.

“It is, I have checked it several times to ensure it is the right amount. I have a couple of guards keeping watch to discourage anyone from being too curious around it until it is time to pay our forthcoming allies.”, Tokur said.

“Good.”, Oghal replied. She sighed and leaned back in the small wooden chair and it made a slight creaking sound as she did. “Do you think I am making the right choice? With the mercenaries?”, she asked Tokur. Tokur had proven to me both honest and less excitable than some of her other officers and Oghal often found herself seeking his thoughts on a variety of matters.

“We are at war. Mercenaries are a part of war, much like any other weapon. They cost money and you use them as you need them.”

“Our people do not like to rely on outsiders. It is our way to solve our issues ourselves…”

“And that has worked so well for our kind over the centuries? We are not the khemakh of other times, only this time. Do not bind yourself to limitations imposed by those long dead. You will suffer the shortcomings of those ideals, they will not. Focus on winning, and what you need to do to win.”

Oghal listened and considered his words. He was right, she could not afford to tie her hands, only to make victory all the more difficult. First she needed the victory, the rest could be sorted later.

***

The rough waves of the Elysium Sea battered the hired vessels of the Swords of the Sun mercenary company and considering many of these soldiers had never traveled upon the ocean, the sickness had plunged many of them to the side of barrels below deck, vomiting their insides out until nothing remained besides dry-heaving. Even Commander Arasiel, despite serving a few merchant captains on their voyages to Ryeongse, Aelythium and the coastal villages of the Tong Empire, was now getting a clear picture of just how choppy and unforgiving the Elysium Sea could be. Days dragged out as troops below deck had grown miserable and filthy, barely able to sleep from the constant rocking of the ships. By the end of the journey, the elf and human mercenaries had grown deprived of sleep and exhausted.

As ordered by the commander, the hired captains sailed wide around Dhorvas, careful to avoid any other vessels that may be lurking along the coast, be they military, civilian or merchant. Though it added more days to their journey, it would ensure that detection would be kept to a minimum up until their arrival through the Dhorvasi Strait and into the Bantry Bay. Making sure to hug the coastline as best as they could without running aground, the ships had arrived to Turzhan, though later than expected. The offloading process would take more hours than needed, therefore Commander Arasiel ordered troops to offload upon dinghies to the shorelines while the Xinjan Strider docked at Turzhan's port, allowing the Commander to offload first to meet with Oghal.

***

Reports made their way to the citadel in Turzhan. Oghal was going over supply forms with Tokur when the messenger arrived. They saluted and Oghal beckoned them forward.

“Yes, you have news?”

“There are reports of a force landing on the shores not far from the city’s port.”

Oghal and Tokur exchanged a look before turning to the messenger. It was Tokur who spoke next. “What kind of force? The Dhorva could not have come so close without our knowing.”

“Unknown, but they appear to be mostly elves.”

“Ah”, said Oghal. “The mercenaries we hired?” she asked, looking to Tokur.

“That seems the logical answer.”, Tokur replied.

“Why are they landing outside the port?”

“The ways of elves are not known to me.” Tokur said with a slight amusement in his tone. “But we should go meet them before it causes a stir.”

“Agreed. Send word ahead of us that we will be arriving to greet them”, she said, turning to the messenger. The khemakh soldier saluted again before departing.

“I wonder if there is any customary greeting for the southern elves.”, Tokur asked, though to no one in particular.

“I am just glad they are finally here. Now we can change the nature of this war.” said Oghal as she tied her cloak around her neck. It may have been summer but even summers were still cool in Dhorvas.

In the span of an hour, Oghal and Tokur had departed, with a company of Mergen soldiers for added protection. By the time they’d arrived, the last of the smaller boats were casting off, with a majority of the force beginning to establish a camp while others established a perimeter around the landing force. Dozens of campfires stretched along the mass of troops with elves huddling around them, trying to warm themselves up.

In response to the impending arrival of the Khemakh, a group of elven soldiers moved forward towards them, their hands upon their swords and their shields raised. Off to the left was an elven arquebusier, preparing his rifle. Another figure approached from behind the elven group, easing them down and ordering them to halt. He was an elf of muscular build, wearing only light black leather armor with a single sword hanging from his belt. His head was bald and his skin pale much like those of his Eternalic brethren. “I assume you must be Oghal?” He said, moving his way through the elven troops that now stopped their approach. “My name is Elrie Mirakis, second in command to Commander Arasiel. I assumed you’d be meeting with the Commander himself, as he had already landed in Turzhan’s docks.”

Oghal and Tokur had halted their horses before the contingent of elves arrayed before them. At the words spoken from one who stood out among the elves, Oghal motioned her horse forward to greet them. “We took notice of your force disembarking here. We had expected all of you to arrive at the docks.”

“Given the present climate here, you will have to forgive us for being cautious at a sizable force landing further up the coast than we anticipated”, added Tokur as he brought his horse alongside Oghal’s. He gave a passing survey over the elven troops before looking to Oghal. “You should head back to meet with their commander. I will remain and assist our guests in setting up their camp and assessing their needs.”

“Very well”, Oghl agreed. She turned to the elven officer and gave a salute. “Tokur will see to your needs here. Welcome to Dhorvas.” She then pulled on the reins of her horse and turned back to the city. About six of their company remained to assist Tokur.

Tokur dismounted from his own horse and approached Elrie Mirakis. He gave his own salute and turned his gaze back to the camp the elves were setting up. After a moment he looked back to the elven officer. “I am afraid elven customs are not well known to me. How should I address you?”

"I serve as the Commander's Marshal. He gives me orders, I send them down to the respective company captains. But this isn't the Empyrial Army. We each know our place and we get paid to do them very well. To those under me, I find ranks tend to muddle things. I would understand if you wish to maintain a level of professionalism and refer to me as Marshal, but you are more than welcome to call me Elrie. And as for you? What should I call you?" Elrie said to him as he turned and began to make his way back into the camp, specifically to the nearest fire, hoping Tokur would follow.

Tokur fell in place beside Elrie as they moved into the camp. He was pleased to hear the simplicity with how he might interact with the elven troops, it fit well with how he was already accustomed in regards to other khemakh. “Very well, Elrie. I am Tokur, a suvemqan within the Mergen, though that term seems less meaningful these days. I generally act as quartermaster and steward of our forces. I am also in charge of Turzhan’s defenses. You might say I am second to Oghal in many ways, though not on the battlefield.”

"Then it is good to have you here, Tokur. Welcome to our camp. Come." He said as the troops surrounded a large fire, helping to keep them warm. "I understand the frustration deploying our forces outside of the city might have caused you and your own. Commander Arasiel did this to ensure that normal thoroughfare for visitors, merchants and other allied military vessels wouldn't be impeded by our own. We've come here to help, not to cause any disruption. Therefore, we believed a beach landing nearby would be more beneficial. I'm am sure that the Commander and your Oghal will speak in depth about the goings on of the city, but I must ask anyway as a concerned ally. How are the defenses of Turzhan currently?"

“The defenses are sturdy, and we have been improving them for years even before the chaos. Sahraqan Torgun had allowed the Mergen to use the city not long after his ascension so we have had more than ten cycles to develop it ourselves. The city itself is protected by a series of walls along the land, making land based siege difficult. Only the inner wall is large but there are two outer walls that an opposing army must still pass. Turzhan has had the advantage of controlling many stone quarries to provide the means to build them. Our main enemy right now has not tried to make any such assaults, and lacks any real naval capabilities, thus limiting them to land attacks.” Tokur continued discussing the city’s present defenses and explained that it was more likely that they would have to take an offensive to deal with the dhorva band and their allied siban renegades. As they made their way through the camp he continuously took note, considering what supplies might be needed.

“We can provide proper yurts and cloaks for your men. I am sure the cooler Dhorvas weather is a bit harder than what you are familiar with in the far south.”, he added after his detail of the city.

Elrie smiled and chuckled a bit at the Khemakh's offer of warmer clothing. "Ah, you noticed that, yes? We instructed the men to bring warmer clothing, but being in such a hot climate, many of them saw this weather as a welcomed boon to their spirits. Something to remind them of that cool Eternals air they had gotten so accustomed to. To be honest, I find it quite entertaining how quickly a soldier would prioritize building their fires over establishing a proper patrol watch or stacking weapons, establishing tents. I don't blame them. By the time we landed here, many of them found themselves already sick of the stinging bite of a cold northerly wind. Providing cloaks for these soldiers, I couldn't thank you enough. All I can say is that we will pay back the favor ten times. We have tents packed, they will find themselves established the more the sun sleeps and these men ponder exposure to such frigid temperatures." Said the Marshal as they continued through their camp.

"Regardless of the comfort of these boys, they knew what they were signing up for. We gave them fair warning it was going to be cold. Very cold. Alas, some didn't listen, others couldn't afford them. If you would like, it is within my power to deploy scouts and patrols to the outer perimeters of Turzhan. It would be up to you." He said.

Tokur waved the offer off with a motion of his hand. “Our own forces are already watching and scouting. The priority for your troops should be to get them settled and then fit for fighting.” He paused to look over the array of hastily built fires once more before turning to look toward the west. “We have some older structures within the outer wall that have yet to be repurposed. We could use them for makeshift barracks for your men. Old farm houses, an old mill from before the unification wars. We’ll need to patch them a bit but they would provide better, and faster shelter for your men for now.”

*****

Turzhan Citadel

Oghal sat patiently in the council room in the citadel. She was in her place in the circle of seats, the khemakh standard for council sessions that centered on a circle, sometimes raised, and outlined in short stools often made from stone or wood. Tokur was laying out the situation between her own forces and those of Gera and the two Siban factions. The Siban under Dehqan were still cut off by Argun and held up in Sarol. Gera and her Dhorva band remained further north, occasionally probing outposts under Oghal’s control but never engaging outright. If the younger raqan was waiting for the right opportunity, it had since passed. Oghal’s forces were now reinforced by elves from the nation of Elvhenen, which tipped the balance in Oghal’s favor. Other officers were beginning to arrive. Bogun and Gulyar saluted as they arrived. Oghal responded with her own, striking her chest. Once the mercenary commander was present they would begin planning their offensive.

Commander Arasiel, after completing the latest reports from his own scouts, entered the meeting place that Oghal had informed him of, known as the Citadel. With two officers flanking him, he took his seat within the circle and looked over to Oghal, nodding.

Oghal returned the nod before turning to Tokur. “Proceed”, she ordered.

Tokur stood and moved to the center of the circle. Two aides joined him and unfurled a large map depicting the main territories of eastern dhorvas. Once it was set they began to place stones in various places. Each stone was painted with symbols depicting the various bands involved; the mergen, siban, and dhorva. One stone represented their new elven allies.

“The situation as it stands is a stalemate. The rebellious siban under Argun have Dehqan blocked off in Sarol, but have not been able to take the city. In the north, Gera focuses on harassments against our outposts but seems either unable or unwilling to commit to a larger attack.”, he said. As he spoke, he used the shaft of his ax to point to various stones on the map, occasionally pushing one a bit.

“I believe Gera is hoping that Argun can complete the capture of Sarol before turning to a larger assault. She may believe she needs those forces to take Tuzhan, and she is probably correct. Unfortunately for her, she has been overly cautious and allowed us ample time to reinforce our position and bring in our new friends from afar.”, Tokur said, gesturing toward Commander Arasiel.

“Our first goal should be to relieve Dehqan at Sarol. We will defeat Argun and free up the rest of the siban forces. Meanwhile, Dayan and Sabri will take a small force and harass the dhorva lines to keep them on the defensive, distracting them from sending any aid. Once the siban are joined with us, we need only push north and force a confrontation with Gera. Between the mergen, siban, and the forces from elvhenen, we will work to encircle them where we can destroy them if they choose not to surrender.” Tokur finished and stood still, looking around the circle for any questions or remarks.

Commander Arasiel remained seated but was the first to speak up after Tokur finished explaining his plan. "I will go wherever I am needed most. We can be most assured there will be scouts that will report back of our force coming quickly on their flanks. If we wish to take Argun's forces by surprise and hopefully with minimal casualties, may I suggest we deploy a small force to find these scouts and get them out of our way?" Said the Commander.

“Since we are moving north to distract the dhorva, we can also form our lines to deal with scouts that may pass through.”, said Dayan. “Between our force and whoever is assigned the rear of the main force, we can ensure their communications are blocked.”

Commander Arasiel nodded, his desire for an appropriate answer satiated. He leaned back in his seat and cleared his throat. “Shall we be on our way?”

Oghal rose from her seat in the circle and as she did the rest followed. She waited a moment, looking among them before saluting. “You have your orders, let’s put an end to this mess so we can focus on the larger goals.” Everyone returned the salute and began to depart. Oghal was pleased to see the focus and determination of each one of her officers. They would need it.

Corcaigh mor, Elvhenen, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

Rolais

Road to Rougeforet: Epilogue

Francois and Darius D'Ailleurs both trudged through the dusty and dirty steps of the Tel Andes dungeon, nicknamed "The Chainhouse" by the local citizens. The stink inside was palpable, but thankfully the windows that the light shined through carried the worst of the smells inside the dungeon to the air outside. The chaos that had taken hold of the nation had now left an atmosphere of pure tension. With the official support of the Emperor, an Inquisition had been formed to track down the attempted murderers, which was rapidly establishing itself as a powerful force inside the Emperor. With the support of the Emperor and Chancellor Parneux, the powers of the Inquisition was rapidly spreading throughout the Empire, with executions and imprisonments taking hold across the nation. Blood was running through the rivers of Rolais, all at the hands of High Inquisitor Tarnen, who had all but taken over The Chainhouse and interrogations took place day and night, all except one prisoner, who was left personally for Darius D'Ailleurs.

As Francois and Darius continued making their way over the stone floor, the Emperor was the first one to break the silence over the empty cells of this floor. "A floor all to himself then Darius?" Asked Francois, looking at the empty cells.

"I like to work in silence." Darius explained. "The condemned downstairs are having a much harsher time, Senator Papadoulian has such interesting tales to tell, according to Tarnen."

Francois laughed. "Interesting that he was a Senator for barely a day and he tries to kill me. Thankfully this settles things for issues with Namalar, he was among the loudest agitators."

"An interesting coincidence to be sure. Perhaps he thought that a war would weaken your position enough for them to strike." Darius alluded, taking a mental note to recommend this as a line of questioning to the High Inquisitor later. "I hear your studies are going well."

Francois let out a snort that reverberated down the halls. "The only thing I read as a boy were the books of history and of wonders. Religious texts? Philosophy? Those were always Alphonse's speciality. His insights into these things were unparalleled. However, he couldn't hold a sword higher than his knees. My conversion to Iskrenist thought will be a hard one, but I am sure if I speak with the Arch Priest, I can in fact be accepted into the embrace of the church." Francois stopped for a moment and laughed. "I hear Markos' sons Antisios and Alekos are progressing well in their studies. Perhaps we should invite them to the Winter Ball next year. It would be nice to reconnect with the family."

"Are you sure that the Winter Ball is the safest place for a child, my liege. They have a reputation for events that children do not soon forget." Darius explained.

"There will be an entire legion on guard duty for this ball." Francois replied curtly. "There will be no room for any such nonsense at my balls. With the Inquisition active, not even the foolhardiest of nobles are brave enough to take a misstep at this critical time. Even the De Brouche's are too afraid to act, and have sent letters professing support for the Empire. Perhaps now I can finally pay a state visit to Namalar, with things finally settled, and the Senate being curtailed to only handling title disputes for the time being."

"Parneux can certainly handle things while you are away and such a short visit." Darius stated. "He is, however getting old. Are you sure that naming Markos as the next Imperial Chancellor upon his passing is a good idea?"

"I know of your concerns, but as I told you I do not share them. You are to support him as much as you can when he comes to hold the position." Francois told him. "Speaking of concerns, I have concerns over your...less than normal approach over this...Gaius, you were interrogating."

"I assure you my liege, that we have corroborated his story every step of the way, and High Inquisitor Tarnen too agrees that he has been telling the truth every step of the way. The man, Gaspard, who we know now was a man named Fredonius Rielon, worked with various contacts, mainly through the House of Disposal."

"I thought the House of Disposal was annihilated three years ago?" Asked Francois.

"They have always proved elusive, and hard to pin down. I assure you, that the Inquisition is making a number of enquiries to get as much information as possible." Darius told Francois. "We believed we wiped them out for your father after Cartagia had taken control of it and was killed. It..has not been an easy affair."

"What of Gaius Tyronlius then? What role did he play?" Asked Francois.

"I believe, that this man, Gaius Tit, is the only reason that you are still alive." Darius informed him. "We have been able to corroborate all his information, and it even led us to capture several of the conspirators with a raid on Werstan."

"Interesting." Francois stated. "He played a pivotal role then in the whole affair?"

"Decisive, in fact. For a Kostuan refugee, he went above and beyond what was required." Darius explained, as they once again came to a stop. "And here he is."

Inside the cell slept Gaius, the man who was at the centre of the events of the last few months. Stripped of his armour, and having grown a beard in his time inside the cell, he showed no signs of awareness. With the sound of the locked door being opened, Gaius jumped awake.

"Be at ease, Gaius." Darius told him. Francois stood outside the cell watching the exchange. "You are standing in the presence of the Emperor. But be on your knees."

Calming down Gaius proceeded to get on his knees in front of Francois in the grimy cell. "So, Darius has spun me quite a tale of your exploits since your journey through the Westion Wall.

Gaius barked out a harsh laugh at Francois' comment. "Not one I would ever happily repeat. It was...chaos."

"Sometimes the call of duty leads men into the darkest of places, I have found." Francois answered. "If it were not for your timely intervention I dare say we would be in a much different situation today. As if now, I am not sure I entirely trust you, or your intentions wholeheartedly on this matter. Why would you care so much about what happens to this country, which is not your own?"

"My country is gone." Gaius told him. "Ripped, torn asunder by people like Gaspard. Opportunists. Parasites. For the first time I was in a position to stop it. To break the chaos. I couldn't let it happen. Not after everything that has happened."

An uneasy silence persisted as Francois stood in thought. He had several options, letting the man go, turning him over to the Inquisition, as well as numerous others, until finally, he made a decision. Pulling out his sword, Francois raised it. Gaius looked down towards the floor, expecting it to come smashing down. Instead he felt it gently tap both his shoulders.

"Arise, Gaius." Francois ordered. Gaius arose to his feet in shock. "For your actions in the name of the Empire, I hereby declare you a Knight of the Rolesian Empire. From this day, to your last, you are under my command, and you are hereby charged with bringing the conspirators to justice."

Gaius stared, slack jawed in shock, before quickly rising to his feet. "Thank you, my lord-"

"Your liege." Darius interrupted.

"My liege." Gaius answered taking Darius' note. "I will not fail you."

"No, I expect great things from you Gaius." Francois told him. "Do not disappoint. Now, Darius will gather your belongings and you will be departing for the city, with some coin, within the hour. Take some time to rest, and please, take some time to bathe and shave. We will have Julian Monton de Lydes, the Rose Knight visit you at your sisters inn in the morning. He'll teach you everything he knows, and see that you learn proper...etiquette for when you are to appear at the palace next week."

"Thank you, my liege." Gaius repeated.

"Perhaps, now that the rats are out of the sewers, we can fight these scoundrels in the light rather than the dark now." Francois said, glancing at Darius. "Let us hope things for you are less...adventurous, than your journeys along the road to Rougeforet."

Hi guys.

So this was a very long series of posts, with a quick epilogue. Expect to see more of Gaius in the future. Just want to say thanks to everyone who took the time to read it and spend time giving notes, pointers and comments on the posts as well.

I want to also give a special shout out to Zeno for harassing me to get these out. He's been a little legend and an inspiration with his own writing.

And thanks to everyone else for making this region such a fun place to write in :)

Corcaigh mor, Elvhenen, Riddenheim, Syrduria, and 4 othersRyeongse, Eskeland, Brelogne, and Straulechen

Of Ships and their Shipwrights

“He cannot be serious!”

The patriarch of ne Meaga protested from his cell as the visiting patriarch of ne Tinuvis stood leant up against the bars, rubbing his whiskers against one side of his muzzle and then the other. Patriarch ne Meaga, by comparison, sat upon cloth sheets atop simple furniture, the cell around him dully lit and even more dully decorated. Surely it was not accommodation usually best suited for aristocracy within Nesketos, much more so those who comprised one of the grandest houses within the aristocracy such as ne Meaga.

“And yet, he is,” ne Tinuvis responded, an air of resigned melancholy about his voice; “The Archon wishes to transfer all Nesketan shipbuilding capabilities to the Pezpulagian lands of Pesku. The large bay there, he states, will be an excellent launching point for new ships.”

The patriarch of ne Meaga clicked his incisors together in ponderance, unsure what to make of this development; “The Land Court will not stand for it, surely. State business should be conducted in state land, surely, not the personal landholdings of the Archon’s own house.”

“Surely he’ll plan for his successors to lease the shipwrights to the next Archon when he is succeeded, no doubt at high expense should Pesku deem it within their interest to do so.”

“And thus, Pesku has a stranglehold on naval power,” ne Meaga scoffed, shaking his head, “Them and ne Cakuvis... I don’t judge those who couldn’t come out so strongly against him in the wake of the plot. It’s not a good look to be aligned with ‘traitors’... But how could so many support him gaining such power?”

The free patriarch shrugged, “People will do anything to keep themselves free, including making the boots that they will later be forced to kiss. The same as the rest of us.”

Ryeongse and Eskeland

Nesketos

South from Pezpulagi

Almost all knew of the islands surrounding Nesketos. Most knew that they were disparate and sparse. Some knew that there were some with large populations. A few even knew that some were completely unoccupied. The level of knowledge for any Nesketan of the islands around them didn’t matter particularly. The Archon had decreed that some of these islands were now to belong to Nesketos. And, as the Archon controlled the shipbuilding, controlled much of the burgeoning navy, had emergency power over the military, could divert funds when and how he wanted and now seemed to guide not just the spirit of the nation, but also the specific aims that Nesketos would strive towards in the near future. As such, when the Archon decrees, Nesketans were sent to enforce his decrees.

From the Pezpulagian lands of Pesku, now one of the largest ports within Nesketos, a number of new ships were being launched, and while some now remained around the bay at anchor, others were commissioned to leave the bay and travel southward. Southeast specifically.

There were two islands southeast of Nesketos, both of which remained unoccupied by any races. The first was a fairly flat island, populated mostly by fowl across grasslands and small, sparse forests. The Nesketans had called this island ‘Ensi Bircaus’. As it was the closest island to Nesketos, Nesketans had sometimes created small colonies upon the island, but this one was not to be a mere fortification that could be started and then abandoned. This was to be a permanent settlement that would export resources back to the mainland, that would assist in the growth of the Nesketan nation.

The second island, a bit further away than Ensi Bircaus, was something akin to a very large rock in the sea, but one which had a key place in Nesketan myths as a dangerous place for sailors. The strange magics of the rock regularly drew sailors closer to the island, as well as to the shallow rocks around it, luring many but the most careful to their dooms. But the time for superstition was long past. This too was an isle that Nesketos wanted to control, as the Archon suspected the supposed ‘magic’ of the isle clouded a more potent utility, materials that he could utilise to grow the military of Nesketos. The southern island, Nesketos termed ‘Menas Taxin’.

Beyond these two, the Archon also had another ship sent out. This one travelled further out west, with the aim of exploring the larger island that lay just off of Nesketos’ coast. The journey would be long, but surely, they would reach the shores and see what awaited them there. What populations called the island home. Perhaps they would willingly submit to Nesketan expansion.

Then again…

Ryeongse and Eskeland

A Sign of Times to Come

In the weeks following the attempted assassination of Emperor of Rolais, the ports of Brelogne had become awash with sailors and merchants spreading the details of the event across the capital and the small counties surrounding it, each telling differing between it's tellers. Many Brelognians saw value in the death of Francois, whose conversion to Iskrenism was seen as an unforgivable sin and a betrayal to the God who had ordered the Rolesian Empire's rise to begin with. The fanciful tales of old regarding Rolais' first Emperor Xavier Faux and the preservation and conversion of his army within the Rougefort were not lost on Brelogne, whose very own ancestors were those of Rolesian birth and saw Rolais as a beacon of faith and strength in the darkest of history's chapters. During the invasion of the demons from the depths, the faithful of the city took inspiration from the Rolesian Army's determined and valiant defense of their coastlines, giving credit to Artyan's spirit for their drive and courage in the face of an unimaginable evil.

As Rolais continued it's fall from Artyan's grace, this sight did not go unnoticed by Grand Duke Jean-Luc, who had been continuously monitoring events through his own sources within Rolais, convening his council numerous times a week with his household commanders, especially to seek the company of Tassin de Vassoigne, who would be required to join said meetings because of his dual positions as Servon of the Church and Chancellor of the Grand Duchy. In the Great Hall, sprawled out across one of the three large rectangular tables normally reserved for dinnerware and guests to use them were opened scrolls, all of which being older than a fortnight and detailing the events that had been dwelling in the Grand Duke's mind. With his arms placed outward across the table, Jean-Luc's eyes darted across them all as he pondered the state of his region and the religion that began them all. Posted on the other side of the table was the company of Grande Connétable de Beauchamp, Grande Surveillant Chapuis, Grande Amiral Jacques Durand and Servon de Vassoigne. Moving his hand to grasp tightly the Sigil of Artyan hanging around his neck, he leaned upwards and sighed. "And what is the state of Rolais as of now? Can we expect an influx of the faithful to Brelogne? Where else could they possibly go? To Qirinai?" To the Grand Duke's question, the Servon was the first to speak up, shaking his head in disagreement.

"I do not believe so, Your Grace, simply because our Most Holy Mother remains in Rolais. Should she in due time see the tide turning against us, she may choose to dwell with the few faithful southern elves they have left, but, Artyan willing, she would see the value of choosing Brelogne as we've kept faith with The Savior time and time again. Brelognians have fought, bled and died for Artyan and the one true faith remains as strong here as the day your ancestor stood victorious against the Kostuan horde in taking the city. As to the question of Artyanist refugees coming to Brelogne, well, I would say it depends on the next move of the Holy Voxartia. With Iskrenites threatening violence against the true faithful, something must be done soon. As it pains me to say, a heathen, fallen from Artyan's good graces and pure light, remains upon the throne and with the formation of an Inquisition to hunt down the conspirators, he is painting the Empire with blood. There will be further persecution against Artyanists in the months and years to come. Rolais will no longer be a safe place for Voxartial travel."

"I suppose we have no choice but to wait for that time to pass if it should. Until then, I believe it best to prepare for any eventuality. We must ensure that our food stores remain capable of feeding a high capacity. This will require more from our farmsteads and the farmers but it is necessary. Accommodations will need to be made wherever we can put them. The Grand Church will need to be expanded to accommodate both the Voxartia and her faithful should she choose to come here. In the event that she chooses Qirinai or elsewhere, the Church has been in need of expansion since the early days of my grandfather's reign. I will be fulfilling that need. For that, I leave the matters up to the Servon and Grand Overseer." Jean-Luc paused as the two bowed their heads in respect to their sovereign. "Grand Overseer, you are dismissed. Begin your work. The Servon will join you shortly." The Grand Duke said, allowing necessary time for Chapuis to dispense with the typical royal farewells and departure. He turned his head to look at Grande Amiral Durand. "Grand Admiral, you have served your duty well thus far. I only ask that you continue to keep your vigilance on trade and foreigners. Brelogne's ports remain open to all but there is room only for the true God here. See to it that our docks remain free from the spoken tongue of nonbelievers. You may go." Once Durand had left the room, the Grand Duke turned to the two remaining officers of his government.

"Artyan willing, our grandchildren and great-grandchildren will never know the horrors of war, but I believe it to be good practice to be ready for it while we are still at peace. I want training times to be increased for all of our garrison including the city militia. Any renovations that must be made to our walls, we will do them. François, our fletchers have provided us well with arrows and bolts, both valuable to the defense of our lands and we've offered them a tax reduction to do so. For the next year, they are to double their production and in return they will pay no taxes as to accommodate the payment of helpers and apprentices to fulfill this need."

"Your Grace." Marquis de Beauchamp said as he bowed his head.

"As my last decree for this meeting, I would ask you both if you are familiar with the Order of Saint Victoria? In it's golden age it prospered under the name of the Knightly Order of Artyan." The Servon nodded, an inquisitive gleam flashing in his eye as his brows furled, attempting to understand where this line of questioning was leading. The Marquis remained silent.

"The Order began as a sect of devout Rolesian soldiers belonging to Raymond de Valoux. They were formed to give protection to Artyanist pilgrims, missionaries, and settlements in danger of attack by bandits, outlaws, non-believers and the like. My ancestor Gerard was a chevalier in service to the Order when he captured Brelogne from the Kostuans. In time, they moved from the Rougefort to Brelogne and served the All-Powerful faithfully for many good years until their decline around 100 ATF. Even at their end, the last knights of Saint Victoria stood valiantly in defense of Servon Aubin against the barbarous Followers of Miskunn in Eskeland. They would be killed to a man, the Servon beheaded, but the stories of their lives remain legend. In this day, I find that our faithful have need of the order once more. Servon, can I count on your support for the reformation of the Order of Saint Victoria?" Asked the Grand Duke.

"Of course, Your Grace. I will support any endeavor you make to uphold our Lord Artyan. I will need to begin a letter, asking for the Voxartia's support as well. This will take time."

"Then you both are dismissed. We have much work to do."

Corcaigh mor, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

Corcaigh mor

The MacInnes-Clan Ranald Feud, Éamonn the Wolf’s revenge, as told by Mulragh, galloglass of clan MacRanald, and the tale of Druid trapped in Purgatory
“It fell about the Crommass tide, when the harvest had just been brought in, a bright moonlit night, one I’ll ne’er forget. Our Chief led the warriors into the lands then held by Clan Innes, once our land, that of Clan Ranald. With revenge on our hearts, we roamed the wooded glens, burning the dales of Kyne, Parth and Banbragh. Three good towers in but a fortnight we set them all ablaze. Our clansmen under our chief, Éamonn, son of Brown Botlúm MacRanald, were bent on destroying the MacInnes’, who had submitted to the invading easterners and driven us from our homes the year previous. Now it was our turn to take our due.

On the night of the next attack, we were moving swiftly through the cover of darkness, down the braeside, seldom did I hear one of our men speak. Carrigurragh, now the stronghold of Piaras Óg MacInnes, came into our sights as we stopped by the forest's edge, twas then, seeing the settlement a stone's throw from us, that my heart began to race. The silence was deafening, now was our time to strike our revenge. Twas then I looked to our chief, Éamonn ‘MacTíre’ (the wolf), his eyes fixed on the castle. He was dressed in a mail coat, over a saffron léine, whose wide, hanging sleeves hung down as he rested on his Sparth axe.

In the moonlight I could see a burning look of determination, and that calmed me nerves a small bit. Then without a word he advanced slowly out of the cover of the tree line into the open fields, and we followed on with our weapons firm in hand. The slow walk soon turned into a light jog coming up to the settlement, which consisted of a number of thatched homes clustered near a white washed tower house. My beating heart began to drum faster, coming up the road to the castle.

“Óglaigh!” (Warriors!)

Chief Éamonn cried out, his battleaxe slung over his shoulder. Our piper skirled the battle march of the Clan Ranald, and then the shouting began. We sprinted toward the castle, some of our men set fire to those dwellings outside the castle, the cries of confusion and terror of those within initiated, but to our surprise Piaras Óg and his men sallied out. I, being one of those alongside Chief Éamonn, saw them directly burst from the courtyard and down to meet us head on.

A dozen or so horsemen came first, galloping, they were expecting us, but we were undeterred! A few of our kern leapt forward and lofted a few javelins, several hit their mark and a few horsemen fell, the shock of their deadliness brought the MacInnes clansmen to slow their charge, until their footmen came up to bolster their confidence to continue at us, and likewise we came upon them. It was chaos, the first few moments of the clash had us all in disarray, seeking out our foes as we clashed together. I remained by Éamonn’s side as one of his guard, we hacked and slashed till the sweat and blood began to flow.

MacInnes’s galloglasses matched our own in ferocity, hacking with claymores and battleaxes whilst the kerns fought on with their swords, spears and axes. I saw Éamonn cut down a horseman, by Crom, his swing- t’would have felled an oak tree, his strength was so vicious! A heavy blow then grazed my helm, and for a moment I thought I was done, in a flash the cries and shouts of the fighting men were deafened, and I could hear the words of my father.

Child, if it happens that you shall thrive and prosper, remember you were fostered upon your mother's knee. Always remember in your heart those three things: whence you come, who you are and what shall become of you. Your days are numbered, your journeys preordained; whether you shall go north or east, death shall come to you.

He was a wise man, my father, in Crom’s hall may his ears be filled with the divine harps of the renowned bards of old, oh mighty Crom of the Miracles! The fear of the bloodshed all around suddenly began to lessen, realising then that I was well content to die fighting, for then my soul would’ve been United with his, but it wasn’t my time.

As I recoiled from the blow, reality quickly came back and the deafening sounds of the fight had resumed. Crom above, twas a tremendous blow. Were it not for the helmet good that kept my brain, I would’ve been lying stretched, my very brain dashed out by the foeman’s battleaxe. But I was lucky, for but a moment after I was struck one of our Galloglasses hacked the enemies arm cleanly in one stroke, that time allowed me to gain my bearings.

I looked for our Chief, and there he was face to face with Piaras Óg. There was a tense lull in the battle, the two chiefs vowing to slay the other in a fair duel. Honour bound both sides to stand back to allow the two chiefs to fight to the death. Éamonn launched at Piaras Óg with a wide swing of his battleaxe, but Piaras stepped back to dodge. Before Piaras could counter with an overhead swing of his own battleaxe, Éamonn clashed the stave of his axe with Piaras’ and the two then traded parried clashes. The two chieftains took a breath, encircling eachother and catching their stamina. The warriors on both sides watched eagerly, jeering and cheering on their respective chief, to see who would slay the other. When Éamonn struck the shaft of Piaras’ battleaxe and broke it, he stood back to give Piaras time to draw his sword.

“Out wi’ it, ya craven dog!” Éamonn beckoned, throwing his battleaxe behind him and drawing out his own sword.

One blow after the other, the duel carried on. Piaras made a thrust of his sword towards Éamonn’s gut, but Éamonn the wolf glided to the right, then with a great overhead swing Éamonn cleaved his sword into Piaras’s helmet, the cleft cutting cleanly through Piaras’s brow. Piaras Óg could just groan in pain before falling flat on the ground.

Our chests swelled with pride that our chief had bested theirs, and that knave Piaras Óg was slain in the dirt, but our celebration was only instantaneous, for seeing Piaras Óg dying on the ground spurred the MacInnes’s to resume the fight, and back at it we went.

Houses around us were soon engulfed in flames, being set alight by our men, and soon the MacInnes’ slowly fell back wi’ us snapping at their heels. It was then I saw Diarmad Donn MacInnes amongst those falling back toward the courtyard. Before I could point him out, Éamonn, like a wolf, chased him down before the castle gate.

“I yield!” I heard him cry in a panic.

“Die with honour, for ye shall not yield to me.” Éamonn said, picking up Diarmad’s sword he had thrown down and tossing it towards Diarmad, but he had had enough, and fell to his knees, his head bowed in shame. Éamonn stood for a moment, angry that he was robbed of a fair fight. “I will not cut down an unarmed man.” I heard Éamonn say, thus we took him hostage.

After breaching into the courtyard, there was little resistance. Most of those MacInnes’ threw down their weapons to us, and we rounded them up outside while the castle was being raided. In the dungeons we freed many of our kinsmen, and other Goidelic rebels, some of whom were shadows of their former selves, but well contented to have been rescued from their dreary miserable state.

And so our bards did sing that night, yet we knew we could not long remain, for once word had reached the Ryegeonse, we knew they would send a far larger force, and thus we withdrew, setting the castle ablaze before we left, taking everything we could carry, and driving on many cattle back into the hills, back eastward across the border.

“They hacked their swords 'til the sweat did flow,
Blood ran down like rain.
And Éamonn wounded Piaras on the brow
And he fell never more to rise again!”

Or so the song goes. Ahem. Éamonn led us homeward, to our new home, for we knew nothing lay behind us only foreign oppression, and a life of roguery. Well contented would I have been to stay in those hills, with the thousands of other of kern and wage a bush war against those traitors and their masters, but Éamonn was our chief, and I followed him. By Crom, I would’ve followed him to the four corners of Sokos, such was the respect we had for him. Chief Éamonn’s view was that our people would be safest in the west, in the lands of King Murchad, and thus we went.

‘The decisions we make now must be based on how it will affect the next seven generations of Goidels. Should we stay, fight and die, or band together in a land where we can flourish under our own laws and build ourselves up, so that our children and grandchildren and their grandchildren can live in peace, strength and prosperity?’

Crom bless his wisdom, for he was right, and now here we have arrived, in the lands of King Murchad.” Captain Muragh finished his tale to his captivated audience within Five Tooth Fuala’s public house (pub) in Harkinstone.

“Let us raise our glasses for gallant Éamonn the Wolf, who prowled through Tírerrill, and slew that traitor Piaras Óg! Let us sound a thousand praises to our kin in the east who hunt the hunters, and a thousand curses on the Gallthóir! May their blood flow like the mighty Avonfola, until our lands once more shall be free!”

“Hail hail!” Was the cheer from the tavern, to be sure Muragh didn’t have to put his hand in his pocket for the rest of the night, all the drinks being bought for him.

The music and chatter continued in the public house, and wine, ale and spirits flowed freely. Ceol, Caint agus Craic. Music, conversation and great fun. That was a deeply ingrained part of Goidelic culture, and in no place could it be more concentrated than in a Goidelic public house, or Teach Tabhairne.

In a quiet corner of Five Tooth Fuala’s, a shook looking teenager sat in silence, staring blankly ahead at his mug of ale. The old warriors story had gone completely over the lad’s head.

“Donagh!” A voice brought the teen out of his trance. “What’s the matter, you look fairly worse for wear lad, no offence!” The lad, Donagh, a local from the outskirts of town looked up at an elderly neighbour of his, Fiacra.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Donagh said in a low, flat tone.

“Ach have you seen the demon Nuada Dublámh[1] himself? Hark, tell me what’s up with ya?” Fiacra scoffed in a joking manner.

“Well….I….I was out two nights ago, drinking with my friends down in Tigh Ó Hare’s-“

“No surprise there.” Fiacra joked. “G’wan…”

“Twas well after midnight when I left to make my way home. Crom be good to me, I couldn’t get my bearings, and slightly ashamed am I to admit, but to seek refuge for the night, didn’t I go into temple.” Donagh admitted, his shame was clear to see across his face.After a pause, Fiacra couldn’t help but laugh.

“Don’t laugh at my misfortune, Fiacra.”

“Ach, I beg your pardon, young Donagh.” Fiacra said, still chuckling, he beckoned Donagh to go on with his story.

Donagh looked around to see who was listening, when he was satisfied in his privacy, he went on “I broke into the temple, the wind and rain outside howling. I remember no light, bar a few dying candles at the feet of the statue to the Divine lord himself, I set my head down in the benches but too hard were they for my drunken head, so I went into an alcove where some cushion I found. Twas the shrine of Naomh[2] Lachtín, and didn’t I fall asleep as soon as me head hit the soft cushion.”

“Was it the druid who caught you?” Fiacra inquired, very curiously. Now this was a story, he thought to himself.

“It was A druid, not the local one. ‘Is there anyone here to hear my seanmóir?[3]’ My soul nearly jumped out of my body. I heard the old voice call out. ‘Is there anyone here that will hear my seanmóir?’

Feeling compromised, I obliged the druid, whose hooded face could barely hide his well weathered face, his white forked beard seemed to be never ending.

“In anim Crom, cad ‘tá ort?” (In the name of Crom, what troubles thee?” I asked him, I cannot deny I had not my wits about me, so rattled was I.

“Will you hear my sermon?” The withered looking Druid asked again, his gaze was as cold as the the mountain breeze.

“I will, áthair (father).”

“The druid began incantations I could barely understand, some ancient Goidelic dialect which had never before reached my ears. I joined in what prayers I could, until his sermon was over. The old man then looked me dead in the eye, a chilling look gan dabt (without a doubt)!” Donagh said, looking as if the Druid was still before him.

“I have waited many centuries here, no one would hear my sermon, now you have set me free.” The Druid said with a crooked smile.

I looked at the man confused and speechless, till he reached out his old feeble hand. I shook it, and it was as cold as winter snow. Twas then that I realised, I looked behind to see if the door of the temple was open that I might flee, so frightened was I, by the time I looked back, the Druid was gone!”

The chattering and music in the pub came to a sudden halt, when a loud bang roused everyone inside. The doors of the tavern came flying open, Sir Ferdia of Ferris and several mail coated warriors entered behind him.

“Whisht! Whisht ye all!” Sir Ferdia boomed to the patrons of the tavern, “Lord Harkinstone calls all able bodied men to report to the western barracks tomorrow at noon!” He looked around for any objections, and when nothing was said, he abruptly left.

[1] Nuada Dublámh - meaning Nuada ‘Black-Arm’, a most revolting demon in Goidelic folklore.
[2] Naomh - (Nay-uv) a naomh is the equivalent of a saint in the Druidic tradition. Naomh Lachtín being the patron saint of sailors, fishermen and sailing as a whole.
[3] Seanmóir - (shan-ah-more) a Seanmóir is a holy lecture, equivalent to a sermon.

Leabhar na Ceart, the Book of Rights
Here begins the Book of Rights, which outline the rents to King Murchad of Nemed, son of Muirdeach MacElloch Mór of Tír Elloch.

Here are the just dues of the Kings of Nemed[1] and their rents and taxes paid in and paid out, and the stipends of the kings of Tír Elloch, and the other kings of the sons of Crom to the king of Tír Elloch, when sovereignty reigns there. These said laws, adhered to the Goidels since the time of Eoghan Mór[2], that any Eric[3] not be included in these rents, and should be paid outright according to Brehon Law.

A hundred horns, ten barrels of butter, four hundred swords, a hundred and fifty horses properly harnessed, and a hundred tunics from the Lords of Ulidia.

Twenty rings, twenty sets of chess, twenty coats of mail, thirty cows and twenty horses in their prime and fame from the Lord of Carraig na Siúre.

Fifty horns, a hundred cloaks from the Blue Knight of Boirche, fifty swords, fifty good helms, and fifty horses from the Lord MacUidhir of Inis Celláin.

Thirty horns, fifteen casks of good brandy, thirty swords, thirty cows and thirty horses from the Lord of Tulach Óc.

Eighty coats of mail, ten good mantles, sixty tunics, and sixty horses from Lord MacDiarmad Roe of Rós Allithar.

A hundred horns, a hundred mantles, a hundred swords, a hundred horses, and a hundred ships from the Lord Ó Madadhan of Síol Anmacha.

Thirty coats of mail, thirty rings, thirty firkins of butter, thirty barrels of Fuisce[4], a hundred horses, and thirty sets of chess from the Lord Ó Ruairc of Brega.

Then ten horses, ten horns, ten swords, ten shields, forty hides, two bracelets, and two sets of chess from Lord MacDonagh of Gabragh.

Ten barrels of wine, twenty mantles, fifty cows, forty barrels of butter, ten horses, and fifteen ships from the Lord de Burca of Anaghall.

Thirty galloglass, thirty horses, thirty cumals (female slaves), seven cloaks trimmed with gold, and thirty cows from Lord MacCarthaí of Dú Hallach.

Thirty horses, thirty galloglass, thirty coats of mail, twenty hounds for the hunting of deer and forty swords from Lord Ó Mordha of Failbhe.

From the good Earl of Harkinstone, thirty boars, thirty beeves, thirty cloaks from the fierce Knight of Ara, a hundred young cows for milk, sixty oxen for a good week's feasting, sixty sleek black wethers, sixty clean cows from the fair.

Twenty bracelets, twenty fine claymores, twenty sets of chess, twenty horses from Lord Ó Cathain of Assaroe.

From Lord MacMurrough na Tuadh, a thousand cows into the stronghold was his promise,
a thousand boars, as well as a hundred fine swords.

From Lord Ó Melaghlin of Fossa, a hundred pigs yonder to be stored, a hundred oxen and fifty saffron tunics.

A thousand oxen, a thousand cows, a thousand, rams swollen with wool, a thousand cloaks from Lord Ó Raghilla of Boirenn.

The tribute of the council Seventh of the Foxes, who presided over the city of Banaghar, it is not a disputed right, a hundred sows, twenty barrels of wine, forty galloglass, a hundred oxen, a hundred horned cows.

Ten horses to the king of the mighty MacElloch, ten horns to the king of stalwart Fornaght, twenty shields, ten valiant swords, ten martial coats of mail, Seven horses, seven red tunics, seven hounds for hunting, seven coats of mail
for the day of battle from the Lords of Aubane.

To the King of Tír Elloch, seven horses from the Lords of Bruig Ríg, seven horns out of which he may drink wine, seven swords, a welcome provision, seven lads, seven female slaves.

Seven horns from the Knight of Áine, seven good swords, seven horses to that King of Fornaght, namely MacElloch, two rings and two sets of chess.

Seventeen barrels of honey, a handsome sword, a horse and harness from over the sea, from the Knight of Cruachan.

Seventeen horses, seven horns to the swift warrior, to the high king of the free Goidels, seventeen shields, seventeen swords for battle from the Lord of Glennamain.

The Lords of Osraí are bound to go with the King of Tír Elloch against the Foreigners in every fight; if the invasion should come to the Osraí,
the king of Tír Elloch must drive it off.
The king of fair Tír Elloch is entitled
to three hundred suits of cloth at Samain[5],
and to fifty roan steeds for each battalion.

The tribute due from Lord Ó Ceallach of Rathdromnua is fifty oxen, a hundred and fifty cows, fifty horses, a hundred cloaks from Umall.

From the Lord of Déisi, a gold-hilted sword, a famous horse, five casks of fine wine, and a ship fully rigged.

From the Lord of Fermaí, ten well trained hounds for the hunt, ten swords and ten horns, ten purple cloaks and ten blue cloaks.

blessed be he!— Fergus mac Moiling the Lawmaker
Who put into the Reacht[6] of Fornaght,
the history and the revenue of every king, lord, chief and knight who travels proudly the land of Tír Elloch.
It is prescribed here that the King of Tírelloch
shall be head over all free Goidels forever,
by sentence of the blessing of Almighty Crom,
Tír Elloch to be head over all free Goidelic people beneath Crom, King of the Stars.

[1] Nemed - another term for all lands held by the King of the Goidels, Tír Elloch referring to the lands under King Murchad MacElloch
[2] Eoghan Mór - an ancient King of the Goidels and ancestor of many great clans.
[3] Eric - an Eric is the equivalent of a fine, which must be payed to the family of one who was murdered and must be payed by the perpetrator. If he/she fails to pay within two fortnights, he/she will be sent straight to Gaol.
[4] Fuisce - a goidelic name for whiskey.
[5] Samain - a Goidelic festival before winter, when these rents must be payed at least by half of what is required of them, the rest to be payed by Imbolc in spring.
[6] Reacht - a Reacht is a legal tract.

Rolais, Saeju, Syrduria, Ryeongse, and 1 otherWindstaat

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